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igrams,
epithalamiums, and pasquinades, this active member of society defied
all the powers of dulness to produce stagnation of tongues, whenever
she was one of the company.
Well, in brisk spirits and iron-sided health, after executing a list of
commissions, half a yard in length, for Lady Goodman, off cantered Miss
Ferret, in joyous anticipation of a pleasant week at Colbrook. Her
reception was gladdening. "My dear creature, welcome," said Lady
Goodman, "you are actually my right hand; I do not know what in the
world I should do without you. Did you remember the wax candles, and
the snuff for Sir Roger, and the cards, and my watch which I sent to
have a new crystal, and did you pay Farquar's bill?"
"I have done, ordered, and paid every thing."
"Welcome, my dear, a thousand times!" replied Lady Goodman; "come, and
tell me all the news."
"Ah! Ferret," exclaimed Sir Roger, who entered at this moment, "I
rejoice to see you. Sad weather this; I have been as dead as ditch
water, I can tell you, and am glad that you are come to keep me awake.
The glass too is rising; you bring good luck with you; but here is Mr.
Hartland riding up the avenue; I must go and meet him."
"Oh! I'm glad that you have asked Mr. Hartland; that's a nice man; I've
seen a great deal of him lately," said Miss Ferret, as she turned to
Lady Goodman; "but have'nt you got Miss Robinson with you? I long to
see her: How does she look? when did she come? does she stay long?"
"She arrived on Wednesday, stays a month, and I never saw her looking
better," answered Lady Goodman.
"A nice thing," said Miss Ferret, "if we could make up a match between
Mr. Hartland and Miss Robinson, wouldn't it, Lady G.?"
"So it would;" replied her Ladyship; "but though your fame stands high,
I think you'll hardly have ingenuity to bring _that_ matter to bear.
They say that he's not at all a marrying man, and if he's one of the
bashful fraternity, there will not be time to get over the horrors of
presentation to a stranger, before Harriet will leave us to go to her
sister in Scotland."
"We must only not lose time," said Miss Ferret, "but make hay while the
sun shines."
The door opened, and Sir Roger presented Mr. Hartland to the ladies.
Though not an elegant man, there was nothing either coarse or revolting
in his demeanour. On the contrary, he comported himself extremely well,
in a plain and equable manner, without effort or perturbation, whatever
were the society into which he happened to fall. A phlegmatic
temperament, combining with constitutional prudence, and his mother's
counsel, had preserved Mr. Hartland in early life from those exciting
circumstances which often plunge young people into love entanglements;
and incredible as it may seem to those who have been differently
situated, it is not the less true, that he had lived so little in mixed
society, and had been so little in the way of _flirtation_, that no
rumour of marriage had ever been coupled with his name; and thus at an
age when others have _handed over_ their sensibilities to a new
generation, this serene and unaffected man was only commencing his
career of life, with all the simplicity of untried youth.
The company assembled; and such as have experienced the up-hill work
of conversation at a country dinner, when the subjects of weather,
crops, the moon, and the roads are _pumped dry_, will easily believe,
that if Miss Ferret were not the most polished woman in the world,
her animation rendered her, notwithstanding, the most agreeable
ingredient upon many occasions, in those assemblies which her presence
enlivened. She had the art to shake a drawing-room together, if we may
use such a simile; and wherever she was she contrived to prevent that
_stratification_ of men and women which madame de Staël has so happily
described, as characteristic of an English provincial half hour before
dinner. Miss Ferret had seen the _last_ newspaper, or talked with "an
intelligent man who had stepped from the coach" in the precise moment
of her setting out; or she had heard a paragraph read from a London
letter; or had a conference with the post-master immediately before
she quitted home; in short she knew something either true or false,
which no one else happened to know, of every thing and every body.
Thin and active, she glided about the room, and brought people into
actual contact who had never interchanged a look till she appeared.
Like the grouting of a wall she compacted and cemented what was
nothing but a heap of loose disjointed stones, till her vivacious
tongue poured in its eloquence amongst them.
When the glad announcement was sounded, that dinner was served, Miss
Ferret, who had laid her plan of operations, commenced them by keeping
up such a cross fire of talk, while the company were in the act of
descending the stairs, that by the time they reached the
dining-parlour, she now marshalled the guests without being perceived
by any one, and contrived to slide herself into a chair between Miss
Robinson and Mr. Hartland. The more obvious arrangement which, by
placing the gentleman in the centre, would have given both ladies an
equal claim on his attention, might not have been so judicious; but by
Miss Ferret's disposition of affairs, she constituted herself the "soft
intermediate" through whom any intercourse held by the extremes must
pass; and she was thus enabled to regulate and guide it as was most
conducive to her ultimate ends. Before the dessert came upon the table
she had ventured to insinuate that there was a wonderful sympathy in
the tastes of her _protegés__protegés_; and as she conveyed their
sentiments from one to the other upon the comparative merits of roast
and boiled, fricassee and fry, hot and cold, town and country, with
sundry other interesting opposites which she herself suggested, there
certainly did appear to be a harmony of opinion which bid fair for
domestic union in that state of life which, we are taught to believe,
traces much of the unhappiness by which it is, alas! so frequently
embittered, to a fatal talent for disputation upon such like topics of
daily recurrence.
The perpetual succession of single drops will wear out a rock, and
therefore Miss Ferret seemed to be guided by sound discretion in her
admiration of minor harmonies, life being, as she always observed,
"made up of _little things_." From generals it was natural to descend
to particulars, and Henbury itself was on the _tapis_ ere the ladies
withdrew. Miss Ferret asked Miss Robinson, if she, who was _so_
partial to the pursuit of rural objects, and knew "_every_ thing about
plants from the oak to the daisy," had ever seen a cork tree?
On being answered in the negative, Miss Ferret exclaimed, "Oh I am
_so_ glad that we have any thing new to shew you! By the bye, _madcap_
that I am, I am reckoning without my host, and must have Mr.
Hartland's leave to perform my promise, as it is at Henbury that the
curiosity which I have mentioned is to be found. They say that it was
brought over a sapling from Cintra, near Lisbon, fully an hundred
years ago, by an officer who gave it to my poor grandfather, who then
rented the lands which now belong to Mr. Hartland."
Mr. Hartland blushed, and his skin being thin and fair, the suffusion
was manifest to a degree which augured well for setting fire to the
train which was laid in Miss Ferret's mind, as he replied, "I have
horses which cannot be employed in a better service, and at any time I
shall be happy to engage their best offices in procuring such an honour
as you kindly design for their master."
"Upon my word, Mr. Hartland, you are very polite, and much more than I
deserve after such a liberty as I have taken; but I mean to profit by
it, I assure you. Miss Robinson ought not to suffer for my inadvertence
in forgetting, that with my poor grandfather all _my_ interest in
Henbury passed away. We will accept your friendly invitation, though
not your horses; for I am sure, that unless the rheumatism pinched
severely, Sir Roger could not refuse his favourite Miss Robinson any
thing. You know, my dear, that Sir Roger admires you more than any one;
and I often tell Lady Goodman, that she is the best tempered, amiable
creature in the world not to be jealous; but she dotes upon you quite
as much. So you see that I have no chance of breaking the peace at
Colbrook, which is mortifying, as it is proverbially, you know, an old
maid's province and privilege to make mischief wherever she goes."
What with blushing, bantering, laughing, and complimenting, a very fair
measure of execution was done before the party re-assembled above
stairs, and Miss Ferret, who, like all wise people, was a keen observer
of portents, remarked that Mr. Hartland was the first gentleman to
leave the dining-room; upon which she gave a significant wink,
accompanied by a smile, the meaning of which was only understood by
Miss Robinson, to whom Miss Ferret had just whispered previously that
she saw strange things in her tea-cup.
To talk of fortunes and fortune-tellers might have been too direct a
mode of attack. So thought one who was never mistaken in her
calculation, and turning rapidly to a little black dog which sat
wagging his tail at Lady Goodman's side, Miss Ferret, with masterly
presence of mind, said, as if continuing the previous conversation,
"Well, it shall be submitted, as Miss Robinson _will have it so_, to
Mr. Hartland. Oh! here he is! Come here, Duke--shew yourself to this
gentleman. Mr. Hartland, Miss Robinson and I have had almost a duel
about this little animal, which she declares is not of the true
Norfolk breed; while I maintain that it is; and moreover that the
first of the kind was brought here by my poor uncle Jacob Ferret, who
got him at Arundel Castle, and carried him, when a puppy, many a weary
mile in his bosom. Now I think _my_ informa tion decisive; Miss
Robinson however will not yield; but to settle the dispute, she says
that you shall be umpire."
Mr. Hartland looked evidently highly gratified, and proceeded directly
to an examination of Duke's mouth, Lady Goodman laughing _à gorge
deployée_ at the ready witted Ferret and the confusion of Miss
Robinson, who, all astonishment at our diplomatist's facility of
invention, was completely nonplused. To have contradicted Miss Ferret's
statement, however, would only have made matters worse, and proved
still more unequivocally to Mr. Hartland that he had been the subject
of discussion; so quietly acquiescing, she waited in silence for
judgment to be pronounced.
"Miss Robinson is quite right," said Mr. Hartland. "Duke is a beautiful
creature, but all his ancestors are not from Arundel."
"Well, well, needs must, and I give up," answered Miss Ferret; "but it
is enough to provoke a saint that Miss Robinson is always right, and I
am always wrong. I firmly believe that she bribes all our judges."
Her next _coup d'essai_ was at the card-table. She had accomplished the
point of involving Miss Robinson and Mr. Hartland in a descant upon all
manner of spaniels, pointers, pugs, and poodles, which ramified into
sundry other topics, and she now thought it high time to look after
Sir Roger, for whom she soon arranged a rubber of whist; and after
manoeuvring for some time, set down the Baronet and an excellent player
who lived in his neighbourhood, against the pair whom she determined to
bring together in a partnership of a more durable continuance.
"Come, my dear," said she, "Lady Goodman always makes me her _aide de
camp_. I am beating up for recruits. Here are Sir Roger and Mr. Gresham
ready: Mr. Hartland will play, I know; but unless _you_ are kind enough
to take a hand, we shall be badly off. Do you begin, and I will cut in
by and by. I know that you are not fond of cards, but you are always
fond of obliging."
So saying, she bustled the people into their places, talking
unceasingly--cut for partners herself, to save time she said, and had
them all seated and the first deal commenced, before any one was aware
how he or she came to be so disposed and employed.
When Miss Ferret had skimmed round the room, setting every body and
mind in motion, she returned to a post where she was always welcome,
particularly when fortune favoured, namely, at the corner of the
card-table, _all but_ in Sir Roger's pocket. From this vantage-ground
she viewed the game; remembering every card, and gave a casting voice
on sundry contested questions. From the same situation she likewise
dispensed between the deals the pungent jest, the lively sally, or
smart repartee; raised the sinking spirits of a vanquished foe, or
curbed the too triumphant crowing of success. Here too she sat ready to
ply her host with a pinch of snuff, or a judiciously tempered dose of
flattery, as the case required. No genius ever elicited in the corps
diplomatique is on record for a nicer trait of generalship than was
exhibited on this evening by our female politician, who had calculated
to a hair, and now shewed the perfection of her practice by bringing
out her scheme with flying colours. Miss Ferret knew that Miss Robinson
was no whist player, and though Mr. Hartland was a remarkably good one,
the inferior skill of his partner would, she equally knew, so far
counteract his sagacity as to prevent any chance of victory over the
well-sustained game of two such antagonists as Sir Roger Goodman and
Mr. Gresham. It was Miss Ferret's design that the Baronet should win;
and in order to explain the rationale of her plan, it may not be amiss
to give a brief sketch in this place of this worthy's character.
Sir Roger was descended from an ancient house, and inherited a fine
place, but small fortune, which occasioned a perpetual strife between
family pride and poverty. He had been at school what is called a
plover-pated boy, and in fact arrived at manhood's prime with as light
a burthen of learning as any dunce need ever desire to carry. The
sports of the field, however, gave him ample occupation, and he married
the daughter of a wealthy trader, whose well lined coffers would have
supplied the deficiency of his patrimonial inheritance, if an ill timed
bankruptcy had not frustrated his hopes. This was a severe stroke; it
was however irremediable, and while health and strength continued,
matters went on tolerably well. Sir Roger became the most skilful
farmer in the whole country, and Lady Goodman, who was a virtuous and
prudent woman, managed her department with cleverness and economy.
But as time revolved, reverses occurred; two or three infant children
dropped off--Colbrook was left without an heir--and a chronic
rheumatism succeeded, which called for more temper, resignation, and
resource of mind than poor Sir Roger possessed to meet the demand. His
decline of life, therefore, exhibited the sorry picture of a nervous,
growling old man, who revenged every cloud in the sky which produced a
sharper twinge, on every body who came in his way. His temper was
graduated like the barometer, and rose or fell with the elasticity of
the atmosphere.
Amongst the most exasperating trials of his life was loss at cards; and
yet to abstain from playing was a still greater cross to one so
entirely dependent, as was Sir Roger, on external excitement. He
delighted in the company of Miss Ferret, who acted like sal volatile on
his spirits, and Lady Goodman was so glad to have her at Colbrook, that
it might always have been the residence of this useful personage, if
her pride had not revolted at the idea of being called "_a companion_."
Such then was the outline of domestic affairs in the family of Goodman,
and Miss Ferret knew what she was about, when she resolved that Sir
Roger should find his purse much heavier at the end than beginning of
the evening. But how did Mr. Hartland feel respecting these
arrangements of which he appeared to be the victim? He was amply
compensated by the partnership in which his losses were sustained; and
which furnished occasion for several allusions, artfully improved by
Miss Ferret, to fate--fortune--identity of interests--and sympathy in
adversity, which never advancing in _direct_ allusion beyond the
literal precincts of the game in hand, suggested, notwithstanding,
pleasing thoughts of an undefined nature which were as new to Mr.
Hartland as if he had just entered his seventeenth year, and
experienced for the first time, the stimulus and delight which is felt
by a boy when taken notice of in female society.
So happy was the progress of affairs, that when the cards were shuffled
in the last deal by Miss Robinson, and she summed up in a _total_ the
various items of apology which had preceded, by saying, "Well, Mr.
Hartland, my bad play has been visited severely on you; your temper has
indeed been tried in the furnace, and you have reason to remember the
evil star which condemned you to such a destiny this evening:" her
partner was observed to colour, while he replied, with more animation
than could have been anticipated in one who had lost every rubber,
"Miss Robinson, it is more agreeable to fail in some company than
succeed elsewhere. I can remember nothing but the _pleasures_ of this
day."
"Why, my dear creature," said Miss Ferret, as she addressed Miss
Robinson, "you have been horribly unlucky. I protest you have nothing
for it left but selling out of the funds to pay off your debts, and
though all _you_ Change-alley people have been turned to _coiners_ by
the late rise of stock, it will not do to lift one's capital."
The table broke up; Mr. Gresham rubbed his hands self complacently, and
moving briskly towards a window, said, "Somebody mentioned a star just
now, which reminds me to look for some friendly ray to guide me home."
Mr. Hartland, who was equally interested in the light of the firmament,
followed slowly, and was the first to exclaim, "How dark it is!"
"_It is indeed_," answered Miss Ferret. "Look out, Sir Roger, it
is black as soot. I think you will have to answer to Mrs. Gresham for
her husband's life if you let him go home to-night."
Sir Roger was in the highest state of good humour, and seizing directly
on the hospitable hint, declared that neither of his guests should
"stir a foot." Lady Goodman, ever ready to second a kind feeling,
praised the merits of a well-aired bed to each of the gentlemen. Miss
Ferret knew that Mr. Gresham would refuse to stay, which he did,
alleging that Mrs. Gresham would be uneasy were he not to return, and
she wished, as well as thought, that Mr. Hartland would remain if
invited; in which speculation, accordingly, she was also right, and
seeing him hesitate, she ran towards the bell, saying, "I assure you it
would be folly to attempt riding home; there is no necessity at least
for Mr. Hartland to break his neck."
"No," said Sir Roger, laughing heartily; "though Hartland lives at
Henbury, there is no _henpecker_ there yet."
This sally was met by Miss Ferret with "Excellent, upon my honour! Lady
Goodman, is'nt that the best thing you ever heard? Well," added our
voluble _go-between_, "I thought that this would be the end of it,
when you gentlemen wedged yourselves into that far window before
dinner, and prosed about new moons, full moons, and harvest moons, till
you wearied the moon to sleep, and now you are left without any lamp in
the sky."
To be brief, Mr. Hartland was easily prevailed upon. Mr. Gresham took
his departure, and the circle at Colbrook, after partaking of a
comfortable old fashioned supper, retired to their apartments. If all
secrets must be discovered when we set about telling a story, we must
reveal the fact that two of the party passed a restless night. How it
happened may be thus accounted for.
Whatever may be thought, and however unnatural it may seem, that a man
of forty-two should be visited by those agitations which the young
imagine to belong exclusively to their fresh sensibilities, and the
hacknied do not believe in at all, it will not appear incredible to
those who are accustomed to look into the human heart with a
philosophic eye, if we assert that Mr. Hartland's spirits were thrown
into considerable flutter by the events of the past day.
Since his accession to an unexpected fortune he had heard many hints
thrown out, both at home and abroad, upon the propriety of his
"settling in life;" and _any_ thing often repeated will produce
impression. How much more then a matter of such importance as
matrimony! His old nurse used now to shake her head and say, "Ah! Sir,
since my poor Missess is gone you looks quite lonesome." The tenants
who came to visit their new landlord, as they drank his health, always
tacked a good wife as the climax of their wishes for his prosperity;
and he was assailed by all the old women of the parish, gentle and
simple, with some allusion to his single state. The words old bachelor
began to fret and gall him in a manner entirely unwonted. It was no
wonder then, perhaps, that with a mind thus pre-disposed, the
machinations of Miss Ferrett found the soil prepared and ready to aid
their purpose. Several circumstances of the evening rose in a sort of
pleasing phantasmagoria on Mr. Hartland's recollection. He thought Miss
Robinson very agreeable and genteel, neither too young nor too old,
lively without being all on wires, like Miss Ferrett, quiet without
being dull like some of the young ladies whom he had seen in the
neighbourhood. As he continued to commune with his pillow, several
obliging sentiments expressed towards him by Miss Robinson recurred to
memory, and just as he at length fell off in a doze, the faint
reminiscence of something concerning the funds glided in shadowy vision
across his brain.
Miss Robinson had waking dreams the while of Mr. Hartland. She was five
and thirty; he was of suitable age; she had five thousand pounds; a
small provision to _live_ upon in the decline of one's days, yet a
snug little dower too, if well bestowed and carefully settled. Mr.
Hartland's complexion was fine, his teeth superb, and his general air
that of a very comely person. Altogether, Miss Robinson thought that
she had not seen for a long time any one more amiable in appearance.
Then he lost his money with such a good grace as promised well for
domestic concord, and as _she_ fell asleep the last words which she
remembered were those of the not too refined Miss Ferret, when she
wished good-night at her chamber-door. "Take him, my dear, if you can
catch him; depend upon it you may go farther and fare worse."
Aurora unbarred the East with her rosy fingers, and sent a flood of
golden sunshine over the fields. Nothing is so cheering to the heart of
man as fine weather, and though Samuel Johnson, of lexicographical
memory, doubted the fact, we honestly believe that few inhabitants of
this terrestrial ball are altogether uninfluenced by clear air and a
fine day.
A ride to Henbury was proposed, accepted, and arranged. Mr. Hartland's
groom was sent forward to proclaim approach, and a _quartetto_,
composed of the lovers (for such we may venture already to call them),
Sir Roger and Miss Ferret followed quickly after. A narrow part of the
road soon afforded opportunity, of which advantage was taken, and a
double tête-à-tête was the order of the cavalcade, till the gates of
Henbury flew open to receive the visitors. The cork-tree, and every
other tree, plant, herb, and flower, was duly displayed and
appreciated. The interior was also pronounced to be without a fault,
and so complacently did the party feel towards each other, that Mr.
Hartland, who thought himself bound as a true Knight to escort his fair
guests half way back, was induced to go the other half through pure
charity towards Sir Roger, who gave so many solid reasons for wishing
to enjoy society while rheumatism would permit, that his neighbour, to
say nothing of politeness, would have deemed it unchristian to refuse.
So at Colbrook he dined again; again lost at whist, and again, deserted
by the "conscious moon," ruminated on his pillow concerning the charms
of Miss Robinson's person, mind, and manners.
Dull people must be told every tittle of a tale; but a lively reader,
for whom alone we would fain weave the storied web, will anticipate
results, and spare us the details of a courtship, brief as it was,
which had its rise, progress, and conclusion in three short weeks;
terminating a few days before the appointed period of Miss Robinson's
visit to Sir Roger and Lady Goodman, in the regular proposals of Mr.
Hartland of Henbury Lodge, to that young lady.
CHAPTER III.
"I will dance and eat plums at your wedding."
SHAKSPEARE.
It is said somewhere in the Spectator, that "a woman seldom asks advice
before she buys her wedding clothes." Now Miss Robinson neither asked
advice before nor after; for, being an orphan, and of full age, there
was no necessity to go through any such ceremony; she therefore decided
for herself, that having no aversion in the abstract towards the holy
state of wedlock, she could not make a particular sacrifice of that
liberty which she had not, perhaps, found such a panacea for all the
evils of life as Poets and Romancers teach, in a better cause than the
present. Mr. Hartland was every thing which a reasonable woman could
desire in a spouse, and accordingly his suit was not rejected. No
projected alliance ever gave more general satisfaction; and not a
single dissentient voice was raised against its prosperous completion,
except that of Mrs. Bunn, the house-keeper at Henbury, who, in common
with all persons holding the same situation under a bachelor's roof,
never could abide the bare idea of "the Master's" marriage, even though
it were to a Duchess in her own right.
On the first day, when Trotter the groom rode on with orders to have
the best of every thing prepared for luncheon, and the gardener was
desired to bring in the finest fruit that could be had, Mrs. Bunn
augured ill of the message, which she considered symptomatic; but when
it came to her being called upon for a fresh supply of linen, and
informed moreover that Mr. Hartland was going back to Colbrook, her
heart, as she expressed it, "died within her;" and not being able to
find the hartshorn-bottle in a moment of such flurry, she is said to
have had recourse to brandy, so completely were her spirits subdued by
the prospect too fatally realized of a finished reign. To abdicate was
preferable, however, to being deposed; and when Mrs. Bunn's agitation
subsided, she came to that conclusion, resolving to avoid the disgrace
of a dismissal, and by resigning the seals of office, while affairs of
higher interest occupied the mind of our Benedict, prevent too keen a
scrutiny into past conduct. Thus ended the dynasty of Bunn; and we must
forgive her for casting "a lingering look behind," as she quitted the
"flesh pots" of Henbury, for which she seemed to have as decided a
taste as ever Sancho discovered.
With this single exception, as has been observed, all was smooth
assent; and great was the sensation produced through town and country,
when Miss Ferrett, cantering her pony at a quicker gait than usual,
suddenly drew up opposite to the post-office door, and communicated to
an expectant group of some four or five _quidnuncs_ who were waiting
the arrival of the coach, that "everything was settled." She was in
her element; and in such a state of stimulus that she could scarcely
control the effervescence of her spirits. Finishing her proclamation
with "God save the King," she pushed forward to cry another "O yes!" at
the milliner's and the apothecary's; after which she hastened home to
set in movement sundry preparations in furtherance of the great event,
which, with better foundation than is common in general to swelling
pretensions, she justly considered as all "her own doing." We are
usually partial to whatever owes its existence to ourselves, and
therefore Miss Ferret's excitement was nothing extraordinary, and may
be excused.
Our readers are by this time sufficiently acquainted with the _carte
du pays_ of Colbrook within and Colbrook without, to know in what
part of the newspaper to look for the registry of a wedding conducted
under the auspices of its goodly possessors and their auxiliaries. The
sagacious and informed will not expect a detached paragraph, exhibiting
such a host of Lords and Ladies that the happy pair are scarcely
distinguishable in the brilliant mob; and which, were it not for the
heading of "Marriage in High Life," might be mistaken for the list of
arrivals at a London hotel; but the announcement of _our_ nuptial
rites will be sought, and found in that column, which, at one
comprehensive view, presents a picture of human life, and directs the
moral eye from the cradle to the grave.
We must not anticipate, however; for much is to be done before the
printer sets his types to the titles of Francis Hartland, Esq. of
Henbury-lodge, and Harriet, eldest daughter of a goodly 'Squire, John
Robinson by name, and gentleman by degree. Lady Goodman wrote to her
friend Mrs. Palmer, to send patterns of all sorts from town; while Sir
Roger, who was as much delighted as Miss Ferret with the coming event,
set to work with Mr. Points, the Solicitor, who rode off post haste to
Colbrook at three several times, as if he was an express; and when
arrived, bustled into the breakfast-parlour (for there was no library,
there being no readers at Colbrook,) with such stir and importance, and
made notes of the intended settlement with such pompous solemnity, that
an inhabitant of another planet, suddenly introduced to the scene,
might be fully borne out in the supposition, that our "special" was
employed in taking depositions against a state prisoner, chargeable, at
the very least, with design to overset the Constitution and compass the
death of our beloved Sovereign.
Let it not be imagined that Miss Ferret's was a sinecure office, during
this season of occupation. On the contrary, her dwelling in the
market-place might be styled the very centre, heart, or focus, of these
interesting proceedings. Her drawing room was the place of congress for
dress-makers, stay-makers, shoe-makers, and plain workers, while her
bed-chamber was the repository of boxes and bundles without end or
measure, from town and country. These same apartments were likewise the
scene of all the putting off, and trying on: the fault-finding and
approval; the lively criticism on shapes and colours; fashionable and
unfashionable, becoming and unbecoming, which naturally belongs most
peculiarly to that period of grand climacteric in a lady's wardrobe,
which Miss Robinson's was now to undergo; not to mention that Henbury
Lodge, being out of the mail-coach line, Miss Ferret's abode was,
moreover, a bank of deposit for innumerable and cumbersome packages
from tailors, hatters, hosiers, "_et hoc genus_," &c. insomuch that the
painstaking partisan, to whose official exertions this chapter is
principally indebted for its subject, might be justly compared to the
supple animal whose name she bore, when, with all its prying energies
elate, and with persevering industry prosecuting its vocation in the
bowels of the earth, the light crumbling soil falls in on every side,
and incloses the ferret's slender form, overwhelmed in the destruction
which itself had worked. But as it is not requisite to the appositeness
of a simile that the analogy should agree in all its parts, we are
happy to think that _our_ Ferret had well grounded prospect of
outliving her temporary sepulture, and hailing the bright beam of
Hymen's torch to guide her through the lumbering piles of paper parcels
by which she was almost suffocated; though it must on the other hand be
confessed that, after she had leisure to reflect in the still hour of
retirement on that busy crisis, she has been frequently heard to say,
that nothing short of the most devoted friendship could possibly have
sustained her; and in after times Mr. and Mrs. Hartland were often
reminded of all they owed to her unwearied zeal.
As Miss Ferret studied the _portable_ in all things, her wisdom
was condensed in aphorisms, amongst which, "there is a time for all
things," instructed her to choose the period of Christmas more
especially for stirring up the memory, and the gratitude of her
friends, when a plenitude of game, mince-pies, spiced meats, bottled
ale, and other seasonable reflections, furnished festive opportunity of
lightening a burthen on the heart, by reciprocating obligations on the
stomach. "Turn about is fair play," was another maxim which lent its
aid on these occasions.
At length matters appeared to be winding up to a point: Miss Robinson's
paraphernalia, after due exhibition, and the sly purloining of many a
useful hint, snatched hastily with scissors and brown paper, from
collar, cape, and cuffs, was all sent home; and Mr. Points witnessed
the due execution of the marriage articles at Colbrook, where Sir Roger
and Lady Goodman had from the first signified their wishes that the
approaching solemnity should be performed. The only hitch which arose,
(just enough to prove that every human scheme is less than perfect,)
occurred in the impossibility of Mr. and Mrs. Gordon's attendance on
the auspicious ceremony. Mrs. Gordon was younger sister to Miss
Robinson, and lived in Aberdeenshire, but indisposition would not
permit her to leave home, and her husband would not go without her; so
it was ordained that Sir Roger, in quality of guardian, should perform
the father's part, and that the bride and bridegroom should make a
visit to their relations in Scotland, before they sat down for life at
Henbury Lodge.
These matters being adjusted, it only remained to fix the day and the
hour for our espousals, which was accordingly done, and now succeeded
cares of no less magnitude.
It has been hinted that Sir Roger Goodman's mansion was larger than his
means of living in it. _Space_, indeed, was the first idea by which a
stranger was struck on entering the doors; for the fact was, that
besides the really capacious dimensions of each apartment, there was
such a dearth of furniture, that the eye was not interrupted in its
progress as it travelled over them. Four walls, handsomely paneled with
carved work of green and gold, enclosed an area, which was called the
billiard-room, with no other apparent object than that of exciting
attention, to remark that not a sign of table, mace, or ball, was
|
, Nev.
3.--AMETHYST.
Same as _Rock Crystal_, but colored purple or bluish violet. Generally
in clustered crystals.
VALUE.--When clear and finely colored, it is a favorite gem.
LOCALITIES.--Usually found with agate. Keweenaw Point, Pic Bay and
Gargontwa on Lake Superior; Bristol, R. I.; Surry, N. H.; East Bradford,
Aston, Chester, Thornbury, Edgemont, Sadsbury, Birmingham, Middletown
and Providence, Penn.; Greensboro, N. C.
4.--ANTHRACITE.
Occurs massive; compact; high lustre; brittle; breaks with a curved
surface; will not scratch marble; burns, but not readily, with a pale
blue flame and little smoke; will not form coke by roasting; gravity
1.4 to 1.8.
VALUE.--Used for fuel and sometimes cut into inkstands, etc.
LOCALITIES.--Found in beds between slates and sandstones, and east of
the Alleghany range only, as Eastern Pennsylvania; Portsmouth, R. I.;
Mansfield, Mass.; North Carolina. No workable beds will be found in New
York.
The rocks in anthracite regions are tilted, bent and broken, never level
to any great extent. Impressions of leaves are good indications.
5.--ANTIMONY ORE.
Occurs fibrous or granular; color lead gray, often tarnished; shining
lustre, brittle; but thin pieces can be cut off with a knife; melts in a
candle, at a high heat passing off in vapor; gravity 4.5.
VALUE.--The source of the antimony of commerce, containing seventy per
cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found associated with _Silver_, _Spathic Iron_, _Blende_,
_Baryta_ and _Quartz_. Carmel, Me.; Lyme, N. H.; Soldier’s Delight,
Md.; Aurora, Nev.; San Amedio Cañon and Tulare County, Cal.
6.--ASBESTUS.
Occurs finely fibrous, flax-like; flexible, not elastic; silky lustre,
sometimes greenish; gravity 3.
VALUE.--Used for lining safes and steam-packing, and for making
incombustible cloth, lamp-wicks, etc.
LOCALITIES.--Found in granite-regions east of the Alleghanies; often
with _Serpentine_. Brighton, Dedham, Newbury, Pelham and Sheffield,
Mass.; Milford, West Farms, Winchester and Wilton, Conn.; Chester, Mt.
Holly and Cavendish, Vt.; Patterson, Phillipstown, Monroe and Staten
Island, N. Y.; Brunswick, N. J.; East Nottingham, Goshen and Aston,
Penn.; Bare Hills and Cooptown, Md.; Barnet’s Mills, Va.
7.--ASPHALTUM.
Occurs massive; brittle; breaking with high lustre like hardened tar,
and with curved surface; melts and burns readily with flame and smoke;
gravity 1.2, sometimes floats on water.
VALUE.--Used for cements and varnishes.
LOCALITIES.--Found generally near the surface. Near the coast of Santa
Barbara, Cal.; West Virginia, twenty miles south of Parkersburg.
8.--AZURITE.
Occurs in crystals and masses with glassy lustre, or earthy and dull;
brittle; crackles and blackens, and finally fuses by heat; dissolves
with effervescence in nitric acid; gravity 3.5.
VALUE.--A valuable ore of copper, containing sixty per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found chiefly in lead and copper mines. Perkiomen lead
mine, Cornwall, Phoenixville and Nicholson’s Gap, Pa; near New
Brunswick, N. J.; near Mineral Point, Wis.; Polk County, Tenn.;
Calaveras and Mariposa Counties, Cal.; near Virginia City, Mont.
9.--BARYTA, OR HEAVY SPAR.
Occurs in crystals, plates and masses; powder white; brittle; crackles
when strongly heated; not dissolved in acids; easily distinguished by
its weight; gravity 4.5, or twice as heavy as _Gypsum_.
VALUE.--Used extensively as white paint and in pottery.
LOCALITIES.--Found in mining districts, often with lead, copper and iron
ores, and in limestone. Piermont, N. H.; Hatfield, Southampton and
Leverett, Mass.; Cheshire and Berlin, Conn.; Pillar Point, Rossie,
Carlisle, Scoharie, De Kalb, Gouverneur, N. Y.; Fauquier and Buckingham
Counties, Va.; Union, Gaston and Orange Counties, N. C.; near Paris, and
in Anderson, Fayette, Mercer and Owen Counties, Ky.; on Brown’s Creek
and Haysboro, Tenn.; Bainbridge, O.; Scales Mound, Ill.; Prince Vein,
Lake Superior; Mine-a-Barton, Mo.; near Fort Wallace, N. M.; Ingo
County, Cal.
10.--BITUMINOUS COAL.
Occurs in masses, beds or seams; softer and duller than _Anthracite_;
often a bright pitchy lustre; brittle, showing a slaty or jointed
structure rather than curved surface; powder black; burns readily with
yellow flame; by roasting forms coke; gravity 1.5 or less.
VALUE.--Used for fuel and the production of gas, coke, carbolic acid and
aniline.
LOCALITIES.--Found west of Harrisburg, Pa., in rocks (slates and
sandstones) less disturbed than in the _Anthracite_ region. Western
Pennsylvania; South-east Ohio; West Virginia; Eastern Kentucky and
Tennessee to Tuscaloosa; North-west Kentucky; Illinois; Iowa; Missouri;
Kansas; Arkansas; Northern Texas; Central Michigan; Owyhee County,
Idaho; Deer Lodge and Gallatin Counties and sixty miles north-east of
Bannock, Mont.
11.--BLENDE.
Occurs in crystals and masses; waxy lustre, but not always very
apparent; usual color, rosin-yellow to dark brown; brittle; the powder,
which is whitish to reddish-brown, dissolves in muriatic acid giving off
the odor of rotten eggs; by roasting gives off sulphur-fumes; infusible
alone, but on charcoal at a high heat gives off white fumes; gravity 4.
VALUE.--An ore of zinc (containing sixty-six per cent.) and a source of
white vitriol. Often worked for its _Silver_ and _Gold_.
LOCALITIES.--Found with lead and other ores. Lubec and Bingham, Me.;
Eaton, Warren and Shelburne, N. H.; Sterling, Southampton and Hatfield,
Mass.; Brookfield, Berlin, Roxbury and Monroe, Conn.; near Wurtzboro’,
Cooper’s Falls, Mineral Point, Fowler, Ancram, Clinton and Spraker’s
Basin, N. Y.; Wheatley and Perkiomen lead-mines, Schuylkill,
Shannonville and Friedensville, Pa.; Austin’s lead-mine, Va.; Haysboro’,
Brown’s Creek and Polk Counties, Tenn.; Prince Vein, Mich.; Dubuque,
Ia.; Warsaw, Rosiclare and Galena, Ill.; Shullsburg, Wis.; Stillwater,
Minn.
12.--BOG IRON ORE.
Occurs in masses or beds, looking much like hard brown earth; loose or
porous and earthy, rather than compact and nodular; powder
yellowish-brown; when strongly heated becomes black and magnetic;
gravity nearly 4. An earthy yellow variety is called _Yellow Ochre_.
VALUE.--An important ore, yielding thirty-five per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found in low, marshy grounds; widely distributed. Lebanon,
N. H.; Berkshire and Plymouth Counties, Mass.; Columbia, St. Lawrence,
Franklin and Jefferson Counties, N. Y.; New Limerick, Katahdin,
Newfield, Shapleigh, Argyle, Clinton, Williamsburg and Lebanon, Me.;
Darien and Martin Counties, Ind.; Monmouth County, N. J.; Somerset and
Worcester Counties, Md.; Michigan, Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, etc.
13.--BRITTLE SILVER ORE.
Occurs in crystals and masses; metallic lustre; tarnishes yellow, gray
and finally black; easily cut or broken; when heated gives off fumes of
sulphur and antimony, affording a button of silver; dissolved in nitric
acid, it silvers copper placed in it; gravity 6.
VALUE.--A rich ore of silver, containing over sixty per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found in veins with other silver ores, in Nevada and Idaho.
14.--BROWN COAL.
Occurs like _Bituminous Coal_, but usually brownish-black with less
lustre, and often showing a woody or slaty structure; powder always
brown; contains fossil plants; gravity between 1.2 and 1.5.
VALUE.--Inferior to No. 10. Makes no coke. Can be used in the
manufacture of alum.
LOCALITIES.--Found in thin veins or elliptical masses, never in
extensive layers like Pennsylvania coal. Near Richmond, Va.; Deep
River, N. C.; Michigan, Missouri, Texas; Evanston, Utah; Coal Creek and
Bellmonte, Col.; Boreman, Dearborn River and Greenhorn Gulch, Mont.
15.--CALAMINE.
Occurs in crystals and masses; glossy lustre; harder than marble;
brittle; heated it swells up, becomes opaque and emits a green light;
dissolves, when powdered, in hot sulphuric acid without effervescence;
gravity 3.4.
VALUE.--An ore of zinc yielding from forty to sixty per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found in limestone rock with other ores. Friedensville,
Perkiomen, Phœnixville, Lancaster and Selin’s Grove, Pa.; Austin’s
Mines in Wythe County, Va.; Claiborne County, Tenn.; Jefferson County,
Mo.
16.--CANNEL COAL.
Occurs in compact masses; dull lustre; brittle, breaking with a curved
surface; burns readily but does not melt; does not soil the fingers;
gravity about 1.2.
VALUE.--Used for fuel and for making gas, oil and ornaments.
LOCALITIES.--Found in the Mississippi Valley; Kentucky; Lick, Ohio;
Illinois; Moniteau County, Mo.; Kenawha County, Va.; Beaver County, Pa.
17.--CARNELIAN.
Occurs in masses or pebbles; at first grayish, but by exposure to the
sun becomes uniform flesh, red or brown, never striped,--although
_Carnelian_ may form one of the bands of an _Agate_; brittle, breaking
with a curved surface; very hard; takes a fine polish; glassy or
resinous lustre; gravity 2.6.
VALUE.--Used for jewelry. When of two layers, white and red, (properly
called sardonyx,) it is used for cameos.
LOCALITIES.--Same as _Agate_.
18.--CELESTINE.
Occurs crystallized, fibrous and massive; color white, often faint
bluish; glassy lustre; very brittle; under the blow-pipe crackles and
melts, tinging the flame red; does not dissolve in acids; gravity 4.
VALUE.--The source of nitrate of strontia, used in fire-works.
LOCALITIES.--Found in limestone, gypsum and sandstone. Rossie,
Schoharie, Chaumont Bay, Depauville and Stark, N. Y.; Frankstown, Pa.;
Strontian and Put-in-Bay Islands, Lake Erie; near Nashville, Tenn.; Fort
Dodge, Iowa.
19.--CERUSSITE.
Occurs in crystals, in powder or masses; glassy lustre; brittle;
dissolves in nitric acid with effervescence; heated strongly on charcoal
crackles and fuses, giving a globule of lead; gravity 6.4.
VALUE.--A rich ore of lead yielding seventy-five per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found in lead mines. Southampton, Mass.; Perkiomen,
Phœnixville, Charlestown and Schuylkill, Pa.; Wythe County, Va.;
Washington Mine, N. C.; Valle’s Diggings, Mine-la-Motte and
Mine-a-Burton, Mo.; Davies and Rock Counties, Ill.; Blue Mounds, Wis.;
Ingo County, Cal.
20.--CHROMIC IRON.
Occurs in compact masses; powder dark brown; small pieces sometimes
attracted by the magnet; brittle, breaking with uneven surface; with
borax melts into a green globule; not acted upon by acids; little
lustre; gravity 4.4.
VALUE.--Used in making the chrome pigments.
LOCALITIES.--Found in _Serpentine_. Bare Hills, Cooptown and north part
of Cecil County, Md.; Nottingham, W. Goshen, Williston, Fulton, Mineral
Hill, Texas and Unionville, Pa.; Jay, New Fane, Westfield and Troy, Vt.;
Chester and Blanford, Mass.; Loudon County, Va.; Yancy County, N. C.;
North Almaden, New Idria and Coloma, Cal.
21.--CINNABAR.
Occurs in granular or earthy masses; resembles iron-rust, but is a
yellowish-red; powder scarlet; easily cut with a knife; thrown on
red-hot iron, evaporates, giving off odor of sulphur; rubbed on copper,
“silvers” it; gravity 9, or about as heavy as _Copper_.
VALUE.--The source of mercury (containing eighty-four per cent.) and
vermilion.
LOCALITIES.--Found in slate and limestone rocks. Centreville,
Coulterville, New Idria and New Almaden, and Lake and San Luis Obispo
Counties, California; Idaho.
22.--COBALT PYRITES.
Occurs crystallized and massive; does not scratch glass easily; metallic
lustre; tarnish, copper-red; powder, blackish-gray; brittle; heated on
charcoal gives off sulphur fumes; heated with borax gives a blue glass;
gravity 5.
VALUE.--An ore of cobalt, yielding twenty per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Usually found in slate or granite rocks with _Copper
Pyrites_. Mineral Hill, Md.; Mine-la-Motte, Mo.
23.--COPPER.
Occurs in irregular masses; metallic lustre; can be cut with a knife;
malleable; ductile; fusible; gravity 8.8.
VALUE.--A source of copper and silver.
LOCALITIES.--Most abundant in the trap and “freestone” regions. New
Brunswick, Somerville, Schuyler’s and Flemington, N. J.; Whately, Mass.;
Cornwall and Shannonville, Pa.; Polk County, Tenn.; Keweenaw Point, Lake
Superior; Calaveras, Amador and Santa Barbara Counties, Cal.; on Gila
River, Ariz.
24.--COPPER GLANCE.
Occurs crystallized and massive; color, blackish lead-gray, often
tarnished blue or green; nearly as hard as marble; brittle; a splinter
will melt in a candle, giving off the odor of sulphur; dissolved in
nitric acid, it will coat a knife-blade with copper; metallic lustre;
gravity 5.5.
VALUE.--An ore of copper, yielding seventy-five per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found at copper-mines. Simsbury, Bristol and Cheshire,
Conn.; Schuyler’s Mines, N. J.; Orange County, Va.; near Newmarket, Md.;
Lake Superior copper-region; La Paz, Arizona; Washoe, Humboldt, Nye and
Churchill Counties, Nev.
25.--COPPER NICKEL.
Occurs in masses; metallic lustre; color pale copper-red; tarnishes gray
to black; powder pale brownish-black; brittle; on charcoal melts giving
the odor of garlic; becomes green in nitric acid; gravity 7.5.
VALUE.--An ore of nickel (containing forty-four per cent.) and arsenic.
LOCALITIES.--Found in granite regions. Chatham, Conn.
26.--COPPER PYRITES.
Occurs in crystals and masses; color brass-yellow; tarnishes green;
metallic lustre when freshly broken; can be cut with a knife; brittle;
powder greenish black; on charcoal melts giving off sulphur fumes;
dissolves in nitric acid, making a green liquid; gravity 4.2.
VALUE.--If of a fine yellow hue, it is a valuable copper ore (yielding
from twelve to forty per cent.) and source of blue vitriol.
LOCALITIES.--Found in mountainous or granite regions with other ores.
Lubec and Dexter, Me.; Franconia, Unity, Warren, Eaton, Lyme, Haverhill
and Shelburne, N. H.; Corinth, Waterbury and Strafford, Vt.;
Southampton, Turner’s Falls, Hatfield and Sterling, Mass.; Bristol and
Middletown, Conn.; Ancram, Rossie, Wurtzboro’ and Ellenville, N. Y.;
Phœnixville and Pottstown, Pa.; Bare Hills, Catoctin Mountains, near
Newmarket and Finksbury, Md.; Phœnix and Walton Mines, Va.;
Greensboro, Charlotte and Phœnix Mines, N. C.; Hiwassee Mines, Tenn;
Cherokee, Rabun and Habersham Counties, Ga.; Presque Island, Lake
Superior; Mineral Point, Wis.; Union, Keystone, Empire and other mines,
Calaveras County, La Victoire and Haskell claims in Mariposa County,
Amador and Plumas Counties, Cal.; near Virginia City, Mont.
[Illustration: PROSPECTING DIAMOND DRILL.]
27.--DIAMOND.
Occurs in crystals and irregular angular masses; cannot be scratched by
any other mineral or the file; brilliant lustre; feels cold to the
touch; when rubbed on the sleeve exhibits electricity for hours; retains
the breath but a short time; often tinged yellow, red, or green; gravity
3.5.
VALUE.--Used for jewelry, lenses and for cutting glass.
LOCALITIES.--Found in gold-regions, in river-washings of sand and
pebbles; usually with coarse gold, but deeper down. Rutherford,
Cabarras, Franklin and Lincoln Counties, N. C.; Hall County, Ga.;
Manchester, Va.; Cherokee Ravine, N. San Juan, French Canal, Forrest
Hill, Placerville and Fiddletown, Cal.
28.--EMERY.
Occurs in granular masses, sometimes with bluish crystals; looks like
fine grained iron ore; breaks with uneven surface; scratches quartz
easily; very tough; brittle; gravity 4.
VALUE.--Used extensively as a cutting and polishing material.
LOCALITIES.--Found generally in limestone or granite with _Magnetic Iron
Ore_. Chester, Mass.; Newlin and Unionville, Penn.; Macon and Guilford
Counties, N. C.
29.--FLUOR SPAR.
Occurs in square crystals and in masses; glassy lustre; powder white;
brittle; crackles when heated and then shines in the dark; does not
effervesce with acids; is not scratched by marble; gravity 3.
VALUE.--Used as flux in glass and iron works.
LOCALITIES.--Found in limestone, granite, slate, etc., often at
lead-mines. Blue Hill Bay, Me.; Westmoreland, N. H.; Putney, Vt.;
Southampton, Mass.; Trumbull, Plymouth, Middletown and Willimantic,
Conn.; Muscolonge Lake, Rossie and Johnsburg, N. Y.; near Franklin, N.
J.; near Woodstock and Shepardstown, Va.; Smith County, Tenn.; Mercer
County, Ky.; Gallatin County, along the Ohio, Ill. Castle Dome
District, Ariz.
30.--FRANKLINITE.
Occurs crystallized and in masses; generally made of coarse grains;
brittle; powder dark reddish-brown; heated with soda turns bluish-green;
dissolves in muriatic acid; gravity 5.
VALUE.--An ore of zinc.
LOCALITIES.--Found in limestone with _Garnet_ and _Zincite_. Hamburg and
Stirling Hill, N. J.
31.--GALENA.
Occurs in crystals and masses; brilliant lustre; brittle; easily broken;
powder, when finely rubbed is black; can be cut with a knife; heated it
gives off sulphur and melts; dissolves in nitric acid leaving a white
powder at the bottom; gravity 7.5--or a little heavier than cast-iron.
VALUE.--The main source of lead (yielding eighty per cent), and also
smelted for the silver it contains. Used also in glazing stone-ware.
LOCALITIES.--Generally found in limestone with _Iron Pyrites_, zinc-ore,
etc. That found in slate is richest in silver. Abounds in Missouri,
Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin and Arkansas; Rossie, Wurtzboro, Ancram,
Macomb and Ellenville, N. Y.; Lubec, Blue Hill Bay, Bingham and
Parsonsville, Me.; Eaton, Shelburne, Haverill, Warren and Bath, N. H.;
Thetford, Vt.; Southampton, Leverett and Sterling, Mass.; Middletown and
Roxbury, Conn.; Phœnixville, Charlestown, Schuylkill, Pequea Valley
and Shannonville, Pa.; Austin’s and Walton’s Mines, Va.; Cabarras
County, N. C.; Brown’s Creek and Haysboro, Tenn.; Chocolate River,
Mich.; Ingo County, Cal.; on Walker’s River and Steamboat Springs, Nev.;
Castle Dome and Eureka, Ariz.; Clear Creek County, Col.; Virginia City
and Red Bluff Lode, Mont.; Cache Valley, Utah.
32.--GARNET.
Occurs in crystals with four-sided faces; often nearly round; deep red,
which grows darker by heat; rarely yellow; also in brown masses; melts
at a high heat; brittle; not scratched by a knife; glassy lustre;
gravity 4.
VALUE.--The clear deep red and yellow varieties are used for jewelry;
the massive brown is ground for “emery.”
LOCALITIES.--Found in slate and granite rocks. Bethel, Parsonsfield,
Phippsburg, Windham, Brunswick and Ranford, Me.; Hanover, Franconia,
Haverhill, Warren, Unity, Lisbon and Grafton, N. H.; New Fane, Cabot and
Cavendish, Vt.; Carlisle, Boxborough, Brookfield, Brimfield, Newbury,
Bedford, Chesterfield and Barre, Mass.; Reading, Monroe, Haddam and
Middletown, Conn.; Rogers’ Rock, Crown Point, Willsboro, Middletown,
Amity, and near Yonkers, N. Y.; Franklin, N. J.; Pennsbury, Warwick,
Aston, Knauertown, Chester, Leiperville and Mineral Hill, Pa.; Dickson’s
Quarry, Del.; Hope Valley, Cal.; near Virginia City, on Yellowstone and
Madison Rivers, Mont.
33.--GOLD.
Occurs in scales, grains and nuggets, or disseminated through cellular
quartz; metallic lustre; without tarnish; can be cut and hammered into
thin plates; not dissolved by nitric acid; gravity 19, when pure and of
a rich gold yellow color. The pale or brass yellow specimens are much
lighter, the gravity being as low as 13. A grayish yellow gold,
occurring in small, flat grains has a gravity of about 16.
LOCALITIES.--Found in veins of quartz running through greenish or
grayish slates, the quartz at the surface being generally full of
cavities and rusted, and the slates below the surface often containing
little cubic crystals of _Iron Pyrites_: also in the valleys traversed
by mountain-streams and in the river sands and gravel below. _Iron_ and
_Copper Pyrites_, _Galena_ and _Blende_ frequently contain gold. Masses
of quartz and pyrites from the gold-regions, which make no show of gold,
sometimes pay well; the value of such specimens can be
[Illustration: WASHING AURIFEROUS SANDS.]
determined only by an assayer. Eastern range of Appalachians, as
Habersham, Rabun, Clark, Hall, Lumpkin and Lincoln Counties, Ga.;
Abbeville, Chesterfield, Union, Lancaster and Pickens Counties, S. C.;
Montgomery, Cabarras, Mechlenburg, Burke and Lincoln Counties, N. C.;
Spotsylvania, Buckingham, Fauquier, Stafford, Culpepper, Orange,
Goochland and Louisa Counties, Va.; Dedham, Mass.; Bridgewater, Vt.;
Canaan and Lisbon, N. H.; on Sandy River and Madrid, Me. Numberless
points along the higher Rocky Mountains and western slope of Sierra
Nevada, as near Santa Fe, Cerillos and Avo, New Mex.; San Francisco,
Wauba and Yuma District, Ariz; between Long’s Peak and Pike’s Peak,
Col.; Comstock Lode, Nev.; Owyhee, Boise and Flint Districts and Poorman
Lode, Idaho; Emigrant and Alder Gulches, Red Bluff and near Jefferson
River, Mont.; Josephine District, Powder, Burnt, and John Day Rivers,
western slope of Cascade Mountains, and southern coast, Oregon; Tulare,
Fresno, Mariposa, Tuolumne, Calaveras, El Dorado, Placer, Nevada, Yuba,
Sierra, Butte, Plumas, Shasta, Siskiyou Amador and Del Norte Counties,
Cal. Rare in the coal-regions and Mississippi Valley.
34.--GRAPHITE.
Occurs in foliated, scaly and granular masses; can be cut into thin
slices, which are flexible, but not elastic; impressible by the nail;
feels greasy; leaves a shining trace on paper; metallic lustre; not
altered by heat or acids; gravity 2.
VALUE.--Used for pencils, polishing, glazing, for making steel,
crucibles, overcoming friction, etc.
LOCALITIES.--Found in granite, slate and limestone rocks. Sturbridge,
North Brookfield, Brimfield, Hinsdale and Worthington, Mass.; Cornwall
and Ashford, Conn.; Brandon, Vt.; Woodstock, Me.; Goshen, Hillsboro and
Keene, N. H.; Ticonderoga, Fishkill, Roger’s Rock, Johnsburg, Fort Ann,
Amity, Rossie and Alexandria, N. Y.; Franklin and Lockwood, N. J.;
Southampton and Buck’s County, Penn.; on the Gunpowder, Md.; Albemarle
County, Va.; Wake, N. C.; Tiger River and Spartanburgh, S. C.; Sonora,
Cal. (The soft black slate, often mistaken for _Graphite_, leaves a
coaly trace on paper not a shining streak.)
35.--GRAY COPPER ORE.
Occurs in crystallized or granular masses; metallic lustre; color
between steel-gray and iron-black; brittle; the powder dissolved in
nitric acid makes a brownish green solution; melts at a red heat;
gravity 5.
VALUE.--An ore of copper, (containing thirty-three per cent.) and
silver, of which Nevada specimens have sixteen per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found with gold, silver and lead. Kellogg Mines, Ark.;
Mariposa and Shasta Counties, Cal.; Sheba and De Soto Mines, and near
Austin, Nev.; Heintzelman and Santa Rita Mines, Arizona.
36.--GYPSUM.
Occurs in plates, fibres coarse and fine, and massive; pearly or
glistening; powder white, which if heated and mixed with water, turns
hard; does not dissolve in sulphuric acid; may be scratched by the nail;
gravity 2.3.
VALUE.--Used for stucco, manure, glazing, statuary, manufacture of
glass, etc. A variety, called _Satin Spar_, worked into necklace beads
and other ornaments, is finely fibrous and compact, taking a polish
(though easily scratched,) and then resembles pearl or opal.
LOCALITIES.--Found with marl or clay, limestone and salt. Camillus,
Manlius, Stark and Lockport, N. Y.; on the St. Mary’s and Patuxent, Md.;
Washington County and Lynchburg, Va.; Charleston, S. C.; Poland, Ottawa
and Canfield, O.; Davidson and Summer Counties, Tenn.; Grand Rapids and
Sagenaw Bay, Mich.; Des Moines River, Iowa; Walker Lake and Six Mile
Cañon, Nev.; Fort Dodge.
37.--HORN SILVER.
Occurs in crystals, wax-like masses, or in crusts; when scratched shows
a shining streak; becomes brown on exposure; quite soft, easily cut; a
small piece placed on zinc and moistened, swells up, turns black and
shows metallic silver on being pressed with a knife; dissolves in
hartshorn; gravity 5.5.
VALUE.--An ore of silver, yielding seventy per cent.
LOCALITIES.-Found in slate with other silver ores. Lake Superior Mining
Region; Austin and Comstock Lode, Nev.; Willow Springs and San Francisco
districts, Eldorado Cañon, Ariz.; Poorman Mine, Idaho.
38.--IRON PYRITES.
Occurs in masses and square crystals; splendent lustre; color,
bronze-yellow; brittle; strikes fire with steel; heated it gives off
sulphur fumes; powder brownish; gravity 5.
VALUE.--Affords sulphur, copperas and alum. When found outside of the
coal region, it often contains gold and silver.
LOCALITIES.--Found in all kinds of rocks. Bingham, Corinna, Farmington,
Waterville, Brooksville, Peru and Jewett’s Island, Me.; Shelburne, Unity
and Warren, N. H.; Baltimore, Hartford and Shoreham, Vt.; Heath,
Hubbardston and Hawley, Mass.; Roxbury, Monroe, Orange, Milford,
Middletown, Stafford, Colchester, Ashford, Tolland and Union, Conn.;
Rossie, Malone, Phillips, Johnsburgh, Canton, Chester, Warwick and
Franklin, Putnam and Orange Counties, N. Y.; Chester, Knauertown,
Cornwall and Pottstown, Pa.; Greensboro’, N. C.; Mercer County, Ky.;
Bainbridge, O.; Galena at Marsden’s Diggings, Ill.; on Sugar Creek,
Ind.; mines of Colorado and California.
39.--JASPER.
Occurs in masses, either in veins or as rounded stones; dull lustre, yet
takes a high polish; breaks with a curved surface; not attacked by
acids; is scratched by _Rock Crystal_; gravity 2.5.
VALUE.--Used for mosaics and other ornaments when compact, fine-grained
and bright color.
LOCALITIES.--Found everywhere. Sugar Loaf Mountain and Machiasport, Me.;
Saugus, Mass.; Castleton and Colchester, Vt.; Bloomingrove, N. Y.;
Murphy’s, Col.; Red Bluff, Mont.
40.--KAOLIN.
Occurs in beds; it is a fine, white clay, plastic when wet; when dry is
scaly or compact; can be crumbled in the fingers and feels gritty;
adheres to the tongue; does not dissolve in acids.
VALUE.--Used for the finest porcelain and for adulterating candy.
LOCALITIES.--Found generally with iron-ore and fire-clay. Common on the
eastern slope of the Alleghanies; Branford, Vt.; Beekman, Athol,
Johnsburgh and McIntyre, N. Y.; Perth Amboy, N. J.; Reading, Tamaqua and
New Garden, Penn.; Mt. Savage, Md.; Richmond, Va.; Newcastle and
Wilmington, Del.; Edgefield, S. C.; near Augusta, Ga.; Jacksonville,
Ala.
41.--LENTICULAR IRON ORE.
Occurs in beds or masses, consisting of minute flattened grains; little
lustre; generally soils the fingers; breathed upon has a clayey odor;
color, brownish-red, powder more red; dissolves in strong muriatic acid
with some effervescence; brittle; gravity 4.
VALUE.--An ore of iron yielding thirty-three per cent. Generally mixed
with other ores at the furnace.
LOCALITIES.--Found in sandstone. Wayne, Madison, Oneida and Herkimer
Counties, N. Y.; Marietta O.
42.--LIMONITE, OR BROWN HEMATITE.
Occurs in masses, with smooth rounded surfaces and fibrous structure;
sometimes as hollow nodules, which are velvety-black inside; its powder
when rubbed is yellowish-brown; when strongly heated turns black;
scratches glass feebly; brittle; dissolves in hot aqua-regia; gravity 4.
VALUE.--A common ore of pig-iron, containing sixty per cent.; used also
for polishing buttons, etc.
LOCALITIES.--Found in heavy beds with mica-slate, quartz, limestone,
etc. Salisbury and Kent, Conn.; Amenia, Fishkill, Dover and Beekman, N.
Y.; Richmond and Lenox, Mass.; Pittsfield, Putney, Bennington and
Ripton, Vt.; Hamburgh, N. J.; Pikeland and White Marsh, Penn.;
Marquette, Mich.; Makoquata River, Iowa; Iron Mountains, Stow and Green
Counties, Mo.; Centerville, Ala.; near Raleigh and Smithfield, N. C.; on
Coal Creek, Col.; and in coal areas generally.
43.--MAGNETIC IRON ORE.
Occurs in granular masses, coarse or fine; attracted by the magnet, or
affecting the compass-needle; powder black; brittle; dissolves in
muriatic acid; gravity 5.
VALUE.--An important ore, yielding sixty-five per cent.
LOCALITIES.--Found in granite, slate and limestone rocks. Warren, Essex,
Clinton, Saratoga, Herkimer, Orange and Putnam Counties, N. Y.; Raymond
and Marshall’s Island, Me.; Franconia, Jackson, Winchester, Lisbon,
Swanzey and Unity, N. H.; Bridgewater, Chittenden, Marlboro, Rochester,
Troy and Bethel, Vt.; Cambealon, R. I; Hawley and Bernardston, Mass.;
Haddam, Conn.; Goshen, Webb’s Mine, Cornwall and White Marsh, Penn.;
Hamburg, N. J.; Scott’s Mills and Deer Creek, Md.; Mitchell and Madison
Counties, N. C.; Spartanburg, S. C.; Laclede and Crawford Counties, Mo.;
Sierra County, (Gold Valley,) Plumas, Tulare, Mariposa, Placer and El
Dorado Counties, Cal.
44.--MAGNETIC PYRITES.
Occurs massive; brittle; deep orange-yellow; powder grayish-black;
metallic lustre; tarnishes easily; slightly attracts the
compass-needle; melts at a high heat, giving off sulphur-fumes; gravity
4.5.
VALUE.--Affords sulphur, copperas and nickel.
LOCALITIES.--Found in granite regions, often with copper and iron ores.
Stafford, Corinth and Shrewsbury, Vt.; Trumbull and Monroe, Conn.; Port
Henry, Diana and Orange County, N. Y.; Hurdstown, N. J.; Gap Mine,
Lancaster County, Pa.; Ducktown Mines, Tenn.
45.--MALACHITE.
Occurs in incrustations with smooth surface and fibrous; powder paler
green than the mineral; brittle; by heat crackles and turns black;
effervesces in acids; takes a fine polish, showing bands or rings;
gravity 4.
VALUE.--Used for jewelry and inlaid work.
LOCALITIES.--Found in copper and lead mines. Cheshire, Conn.; Brunswick
and Schuyler’s Mines, N. J.; Morgantown, Cornwall, near Nicholson’s Gap,
Perkiomen and Phœnixville Lead Mines, Pa.; Petapsco Mines, Md.;
Davidson County N. C.; Polk County, Tenn.; Left Hand River and Mineral
Point, Wis.; Falls of St. Croix, Minn.; Jefferson County and Mine la
Motte, Mo.; Calaveras County, Cal.; Big Williams’ Fork, Ariz.; Wild Cat
Cañon and near Virginia City, Mont.
46.--MANGANESE SPAR.
Occurs in masses; glassy lustre; color flesh or rose-red; becomes black
on exposure; tough; melted with borax gives a violet-blue color; gravity
3.5.
VALUE.--Used in glazing stone-ware.
LOCALITIES.--Found in granite regions, often with iron-ore. Blue Hill
Bay, Me.; Cummington, Warwick and Plainfield, Mass.; Irasburg and
Coventry, Vt.; Winchester, and Hinsdale, N. H.; Cumberland, R. I.;
Franklin and Hamburg, N. J.
47.--MARBLE.
Occurs coarse and fine granular; frequently veined or mottled; brittle;
can be cut with a knife; takes a polish; effervesces with acids;
reduced to quicklime by heat; a gray variety contains stems and joints
of worm-like fossils; gravity 2.5.
LOCALITIES.--Brandon, Rutland, Dorset, Shoreham, Pittsford, Middlebury,
Fairhaven, Cavendish, Lowell, Troy and Sudbury, Vt.; West
|
[1] still pierce their ears as their
ancestors did; the rank of a chief being indicated by his having a ring
in the left ear only, or in the right, or in both.
The Master of the dance wears a stiff circular cap, surrounded by
upright peacock feathers that sway with every movement, towering above
all the dancers, and about his shoulders is a string of big sea-shells.
From his neck hangs a metallic representation of the sun, in whose
centre is an all-seeing eye within a triangle, from which depends a
large tongue, symbol of power and wisdom.
One man carries a white flag on which is painted an image of the sun,
and a man and woman on their knees worshiping it. Three men, apart from
the dancers, play a clarionet, a _sacatan_, and a big turtle-shell
beaten with deer-horns. The Master marks time with a rattle, and in his
other hand has a three-thonged whip like the flagellum of Osiris in
Egypt; throughout the performance he remains standing close to the
flag-staff.
Each dancer holds in his left hand a fan of turkey feathers whose
handle is a claw of that bird; and in his right a small rattle made of
a calabash shell, fancifully painted, containing pebbles and dried
seeds. These rattles remind us of the sistrums used anciently in the
temples of Egypt.
Around the pole on which the flag is furled, the dancers walk three
times, with solemn tread, groping their way as if in darkness. Suddenly
the flag is unfurled, the sun appears, all draw themselves up to their
full height, raise their eyes and hands, and utter a unanimous shout of
joy.
Now the dance commences, round and round the pole they go with various
steps and motions, not graceful, but energetic and full of meaning. The
dance is intended to represent, among other things, the course and
movement of our planet around the sun. The chief and the dancers sing
alternately:
“Take care how you step!”
“We step well, O Master!”
The melody and strange accompaniment are impressive and stirring, the
rattles being particularly effective, now imitating the scattering of
grain, then by a brisk motion of every arm sending forth a sound like a
sudden rainfall on parched leaves, or a thunder clap in the distance,
uniting with a shout raised by the dancers at the conclusion of each
chorus. The fans, kept in motion, are emblematic of refreshing breezes.
The flag on the pole is undoubtedly a modern addition, simply to
indicate what the dance originally was; of old, the pole itself
represented the central orb; as the round towers did in Ireland,
Persia, and India; the conical stones in Phoenicia; the pyramids and
obelisks in Egypt, etc.—for in America, as in those countries, sun
worship was the religion of the people.
Finally, the expression “Will Supreme” in the opening line of the poem
is used in the sense of the Maya word UOL (or _will_) as applied by the
Mayas of ancient times to the First Great Cause. This subject has been
fully treated elsewhere by Dr. Le Plongeon.
-----
Footnote 1:
These Indians were in May, 1901, subjugated by Mexican troops, under
General Bravo, after a prolonged struggle, and their capital of Chan
Santa Cruz was taken.
ARGUMENT.
I.
A soul returns to earth to live again in mortal form as daughter of a
potentate who rules over the Maya Empire. When the Princess reaches
womanhood, the High Priest Cay, her father’s brother, describes to her
the destruction of the great land whence her people came; consults Fate
regarding her future; gives advice to the Princess, and presents her
with a talismanic stone, warning her that its loss might deprive her of
her throne.
II.
The Princess is wooed by two of her brothers, who thus become rivals.
Her preference is for Coh, whom she weds. Cay prophesies to her that in
another earthly incarnation she will again be the sister and wife of
him she has chosen for consort.
Aac, the unsuccessful suitor, is filled with jealous wrath.
The sovereign Can, and his brother the High Priest Cay, both pass away.
The Can’s eldest son, also named Cay, becomes High Priest; Móo is Queen
of Chicħen, and her consort the supreme military chief.
III.
The Prince consort is treacherously slain by his brother Aac, who
admits his guilt, and is banished from the royal city, his elder
brother warning him that he, Aac, will cause the downfall of the Can
dynasty.
IV.
Multitudes assemble to bewail the death of Coh and witness the funeral
rites. His ashes are laid to rest and, with his charred heart,
deposited in a stone urn, the widowed Queen places her talisman, hoping
to thus link her destiny with that of Coh. She builds a monument over
his mortal remains and a statue made to his likeness, and erects a
memorial hall, upon whose exterior walls she inscribes an invocation to
the _manes_ of her consort.
V.
Notwithstanding his crime, Aac ventures to renew his entreaties.
Failing in his desire, he brings about a war that causes the ruin of
the country and people. Finally the Queen is captured and imprisoned by
Aac; but she is rescued by loyal subjects and with them flees to
foreign lands.
VI.
Aac, frustrated even in his hour of triumph, becomes a tyrant,
oppresses those under his sway, turns a deaf ear to better promptings,
and at last is killed in a contest with some of his own subjects, who
would restrain him. The famous CAN dynasty is thus brought to its close.
VII.
The Queen and her rescuers find tranquillity in the land of the Nile,
where, long before, Maya colonists had made their homes. Here, Móo is
received with open arms, and reigns again to the hour of her death.
SEQUEL.
I.
After many centuries have passed away, in a land far distant from that
of the Mayas, Death snatches a baby girl from a loving brother. He
stays upon earth; his lost sister again takes mortal form in another
family; they meet and are united; the prophecy of the High Priest Cay
being thus fulfilled. Together they journey to the land of the Mayas
where, in the tomb of Coh, they find his heart and Móo’s talisman, in
the urn in which she had deposited it many centuries before.
II.
Among the ruins of his palace Aac’s spirit wanders desolate, pleading
for the blessing of forgetfulness in rebirth.
III.
The talisman brings visions of the long ago, voices of the Past; Cay,
the Wise, still lives, still leads the way to paths of peace.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Head piece-Winged Circle—from Ococingo (Guatemala)]
QUEEN MÓO’S TALISMAN.
FALL OF THE MAYA EMPIRE.
I.
Moved by the Will Supreme to be reborn,—
In high estate a soul sought earthly morn;
Life stirred within a beauteous Maya queen
Of noble deeds, of gracious word and mien.
Beneath the wing of Can, just potentate
O’er Maya-land, of old an empire great,
The Princess Móo knew all the joys of youth,
Led on from day to day by Love and Truth.
Earth’s fairest blossoms at her feet were flung;
About her slender form rare pearls were hung.
The zephyr soft was music to her ear;
The tempest wild awaked in her no fear.
Within her being Past and Future slept,
And into guileless mind no phantom crept.
Heart sang with Nature’s harmonies its best,
Like warbling bird within a downy nest.
But soon ’mong roseate tints more sombre thought
Unto youth’s bubbling spring dark ripples brought.
An aged man, divine love in his face,
Led Princess Móo within a sacred place
And there relating many a tale of old,
Of years to come would something too unfold.
Faint echos even now reverberate
What he then told about the awful fate
Of Mu, imperial mistress of the seas,
Renowned for power and wealth thro’ centuries.
“O’erwhelmed was she in one appalling night
When Homen, raging in his fearful might,
Threw lofty peaks that lesser mountains crushed,
And every life was into silence hushed.
The rended mountains sent aloft their fire
To meet the lightning’s dart and then expire.
From earth and sky incessant thunder broke;
The bursting clouds forced back ascending smoke;
Soon over all the seething billows swept:
Death’s lullaby the waters purled, and crept.
Then towering seas that gleamed as with snowcap,
Tossed ships on land, while into Ocean’s lap
The land convulsed, her haughty mansions heaved.
Waves onward dashed, as roaring flames they cleaved.
In contest fierce, for mastery thus strove
The elements, as luckless Mu they drove,
With Death to battle, down in yawning hell;
By all her gods forsaken, doomed she fell!”
“In blind despair, brother ’gainst brother fought;
For feeble minds to frenzy soon were brought.
Upon their knees men grovelled in the mud;
In vain from crashing wall, from flame and flood,
A shelter sought, demented they, with fear;
And many a pleading eye met maniac leer.
Fond mothers left their babes and raving fled;
Thus fast and faster unto death all sped.
Men ran distracted; climbed the stalwart trees,
By earthquake rocked like craft on stormy seas.
Cast off, they rushed to find in caverns deep
A refuge safe; nor into those might creep;
For when they drew anear, with thunderous sound
The cavern mouths closed up as heaved the ground.
In cities rich and great the house-tops swarmed
With frantic men, by fear to brutes transformed.
Around, the blackened, angry waters surged
Till dwellings rocked, and melting soon were merged,
Engulfed in dark abyss with writhing woe,
All swiftly spent in one last awful throe!”
“The temples of the gods, the halls of state,
Quick fell, but failed Lord Homen’s greed to sate.
High towers of stone in fragments crumbled down—
Of perfect structure those, and wide renown.
About man’s shattered works the waters whirled,
And he, to Terror’s chariot lashed, was hurled
To deep repose or spheres to man unknown,
While mangled body lay in ocean prone.
Above the horrid sights and awful fear
Dark waters rolled, mud-laden many a year.
At dawn high crested waves, victorious,
Exulted over Mu long glorious!
Of what she was, some vestige yet may rest
In depth profound ’neath Ocean’s heaving breast.
Perchance, when ages shall have fled, that land,
Stripped bare—again unable to withstand
Volcanic force, that will her life-springs start—
May rise, and thus reborn again take part
On this small globe, mere cosmic spark! yet still
A universe whose powers await man’s will.”
“To Ku the Mighty, hosts of souls went back
Upon that thirteenth night in month of Zac.
The dross returned to nursery of Earth—
All form to fire and water owes its birth.
Our wisemen then by edict made that date
Each week, of thirteen days, to terminate.
And noble hearts that day, with sacred rite,
In urns are hid away from mortal sight;
Then during thirteen days we all lament.
When Maya nation mourns some dire event,
On thirteen altars we our offering make;
And thirteen guests at funeral board partake.
That famous Mu may ne’er forgotten be,
To grief belongs thirteen, by Can’s decree.”
“For many years Mu’s day of doom was feared,
When those who into magic mirrors peered
Saw visions grim; their minds were filled with dread.
Not all believed that into Ocean’s bed
A land of vast dimensions could be thrust
By Homen’s power, yet many felt mistrust.
But one there was more heedful than the rest,
In science versed and with discernment blest;
From Mu he sailed with those who deemed him wise—
Our ancestor was he, thou dost surmise.”
The Princess, deeply touched, in silence heard,
With close attention, not to lose a word.
“To Oracle that ancestor gave ear—
Yet he for self had not a thought of fear—
And thus were many saved, of noble race
That otherwise had left on earth no trace,
With him for guide to this kind shore they came,
Renewing here the glory of their name.
Then all agreed that Can should Sovereign be.
He earnestly desired they might be free
From failings he deplored in that great State
They’d left, because ’twas threatened by dark fate.
He warned them oft—‘Of luxury and pride
Beware!’—for well he knew how, side by side,
Such foes can plunge the soul of man in mire.
The arrogance of Mu roused Heaven’s ire;
At her debauchery shocked, the gods forth fled;
Deserted thus, in agony she bled.
Simplicity and virtue stern, Can taught;
With zeal his subjects held this righteous thought;
Rejoiced in peace, and in dominion grew,
Till far and near the Mayas throve anew.
Can passed away before proud Mu was crushed,
But his successor’s voice was yet unhushed.
Now, Princess dear, we reach, it seems to me,
Portentous years—come then, thy fate we’ll see.”
Thus spake the Sage, as o’er his raiment white
He threw an ample cloak of feathers bright,
Of royal yellow these and emerald-green,
Beneath the sky resplendent was their sheen
When forth he went, the Princess by his side,
To sacred place that had no roof to hide
The glorious light of day, but walled so high
That none could see within while passing by.
Móo’s simple mind was here struck with amaze,
For where the wiseman fixed his earnest gaze
An armadillo thence out crept, nor stayed
Till at her feet, as if it thus obeyed
A force unseen or was by fetter bound;
But none appeared upon that hallowed ground.
The aged man this creature gently placed
Above a brasier which the Princess faced;
As in its depth clear-burning charcoal lay,
With pity moved she cried aloud—“Nay! nay!”
But he—“Think not that I would torture this
Or aught that is; could I then hope for bliss?
Each being in Creation works its way
To perfect rest, all must this law obey.
From Ku all emanate, are thence divine;
Eternal law ordaineth all combine
To aid; each one of us must give and take.
This creature, serving us, will progress make,
And we are lifted up in reaching down;
Thus by endeavor we ourselves may crown.
Learn then, this little friend shall nothing feel,
Experience shall to thee a truth reveal.
Thy slender fingers I but touch, and lo!
All feeling goes, no heat therein doth glow.
Now move thy hand, ’tis free again dost find;
This holy law to suffering flesh is kind;
Who knoweth this, sensation can enchain,
And armadillo shall not suffer pain.”
’Twas true indeed, for tranquilly it stayed
Above the burning coal, quite undismayed;
While such the heat endured that soon its shell
O’erspread became with misty lines. To spell
What weighty meaning auspice might conceal
The seer watched, its purport to reveal.
What promised he—of what did he then warn—Could
she evade the fate foretold that morn?
For house of Can he prophesied defeat,
Through dark revenge its overthrow complete;
By jealousy brought on, and Móo its source,
Tho’ blameless she, herself bereft of force.
Then back to Cay’s sanctum both returned,
Móo’s heart oppressed by much that she had learned.
This mood the Sage rebuked and bade her hear
His words: “Dear child, thy path lies straight and clear;
Whate’er may hap, no thought of wrath outsend;
This breedeth ill and nothing doth amend.
In spite of many wrongs thou may’st endure,
Of fame this oracle doth thee assure.
’Twould seem a jest to bid thee do aright,
For man, alas! is in a woful plight!
He gropes along in quest of Wisdom’s ray
And, ever seeking, often goes astray.
In noble deeds exert thy human might;
Let acts of kindness be thy best delight.
To give advice for all life’s days who dare?
Can one foresee what pitfall may ensnare
Thy feet in paths where thou art bound to tread?
But come what may, thy soul must nothing dread.
Hate’s sting fear not; if thou no hatred give,
Its venom reacheth not what shall outlive
All trivial griefs and wrongs, thyself divine,
Bring what life will, let not thy soul repine.
Aid those who seek thy help; there is no joy
Surpassing this, unmingled with alloy.
We know that conflict is a law of life,
For matter feeds itself by constant strife;
The Will Eternal maketh this decree;
We feel results; the _why_ we do not see.
The Heart of Heaven, throbbing with thine own,
Knows ALL IS WELL. The Infinite alone
Embraces all, and ever lures us on
To blissful rest where all return anon.
In paths of doubt and fear all onward go,
But knowing little, waver to and fro.
At times disconsolate, men yet aspire,
Labor and sigh for bauble they desire;
For riches, joys and honors, they contend;
But on the funeral pyre these all must end.
Let thy wish be to find the highest gift,
The Light Divine, ’t will ever thee uplift.
When grief shall rend thy heart, seek thine own soul;
Shut out life’s din, and find that sacred goal.
A talisman I give thee—jadeite green,
’Twill ever lend thee intuition keen.
Its wearer may with love herself surround,
For with attractive force it doth abound.
Would one deceive, and traitor prove to thee,
His mind with this thou wilt quite plainly see.
Thro’ centuries this talisman can bind
Two souls—desiring this, the way thou’lt find.
But keep it sacredly for thee alone;
If thou lose this a foe will seize thy throne.“
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Plate II.]
II.
The daughter of the Can was early wooed
By Aac, her brother, who with fervor sued;
A brother-prince by law must consort be;
In choice of one the future Queen was free.
And ’twas for Coh alone her own heart yearned;
Aac seeing this with jealous anger burned.
Those brothers fought as strangers cruel might;
Both wounded fell, a rueful, horrid sight!
Coh far and wide for valiant deeds was known;
The Princess Móo her courage oft had shown;
That they should mated be was right and just;
Thus by the Can, who in them put full trust,
Their nuptials sanctioned were, and many a day,
On pleasure bent, the people had their way;
For Can regaled them all with lavish grant.
At break of day was heard the deep-toned chant:
Lord of day we are Thine!
On our path deign to shine—
Holy Light!
Mortals glory in Thy might.
When night flees before Thy ray
We our voices lift, and pray—
Great Light!
Scarce rose the sun when crowds on sport intent,
From every door in quest of pleasure went;
All left their homes the time to pass away,
And on the air rang many a joyous lay
Of boy and girl who simple frolic sought,
And gaily sang with little care or thought.
Hear life’s jingle, come along!
All should mingle with the throng;
Clasp my hand, dear, haste with me—
Say not nay, for I love thee!
Quit thy nonsense or begone!
I am not thus lightly won.
Let’s go onward to the dance,
Give me but one tender glance!
Cease thy teasing, I’ll not go!
’Tis decided, thou must know.
Hear life’s jingle! join the throng;
Youth and pleasure stay not long.
With shades of eve came other dancers gay,
Their smiles enticing young and old away;
As in and out about the streets they roamed,
They joked and sang while many a goblet foamed:
On our dress of spotless white
We are wreathing garlands bright;
And will sing, kiss, sip,
With laughing, ruddy, lip,
Far away into the night.
Days of gladness soon take flight,
Love’s sweet nectar do not slight
Let us sing, kiss, sip,
And light-hearted gaily trip,
While our vows we once more plight.
And well they did to quaff the honeyed cup—
Why keep the mind with bitter thoughts filled up,—
The watchful gods no pity ever take
On those who sullen gloom will not forsake;
But on bright smiles, reflecting cheerful heart,
Frown not, e’en if gay Folly play a part.
O beauteous night! when lingering footfall strayed,
And stars reflected seemed where firefly played,
Each leaflet murmured lover’s tenderness;
Soul’s ecstasy was pure and fathomless.
O mystic Love! to every trivial thing
A new and holy charm dost ever bring,
With light and joy, to all touched by thy ray
Creation glows for him who feels thy sway.
Of one we love Perfection is the name,
For love is breath of God, all potent flame!
Thus ’twas a lover sang, with rapture filled,
When bird on leafy bough had softly trilled:
Ah! bird so gay,
Take not thy flight!
With dulcet lay
My heart delight!
Stay by me here,
For thou art dear—
Tho’ one I love is yet more dear!
Ah! floweret fair,
With breath of Morn
Upon the air
Thy perfume’s borne;
Thy life’s too fleet,
For thou art sweet—
Tho’ one I love is yet more sweet!
Ah! limpid dew,
Fair pearl of Night—
That doth anew
To petal bright
Give charm to lure—
Thou art so pure!
Tho’ one I love is just as pure.
In drowsy bud Night breathed. “May love here bide!”
But love and pain are one, so floweret sighed
When glistening dew to perfumed petal clung,
Imploring—“Wake me not! by zephyr swung,
Ah! let me linger in this happy state!
Ope not the way to pang that may await.”
But lovely Morn appeared with roseate ray,
And soon the god of day chased tears away;
Earth throbbed anew, leaves quivered with delight;
Flowers laughed, “We love! we live! thanks be to Night!”
In silent, sombre hour of deep repose
All form drinks in life’s force that ever flows;
And from the tranquil vale of balmy rest
Each being leaps—love’s joy they all attest.
On globes revolving night must follow day;
The universe doth this same law obey.
Pleasure with pain is mingled, gently kissed
By Sorrow, or regret for something missed;
As plaintive minor blends with major strain,
Fair Light’s attendant shades adorn her train.
And Móo upon her marriage day had mourned,
For she by Oracle had been forewarned
That Coh from her might in the future time
Be torn by dastard treachery and crime.
Beyond that time the wiseman too could see
That Móo, bereft and harshly wronged, would flee.
More strange than all, the Oracle foretold—
“In bitter woe this thought may thee uphold:
Both will return; the sister thou wilt be
And wife once more of him awaiting thee.”
The Prophet Cay taught Can’s eldest child;
With mystic lore their time was much beguiled;
For pupil would some day the High Priest be,
When his preceptor should from earth go free.
Surrounded by his volumes old, the Sage
In search of truth read over every page.
On rare occasions he before the crowd
Came forth to speak, and all to his will bowed.
Prophetic words were his, sincere and wise;
The Can obeyed when Cay deigned advise.
Revered by high and low, the honored Sage
Could by his will much pain and grief assuage—
Nor ever aid withheld, for he loved all—
But soon the Lord of life would him recall.
More than he did no one in mortal frame
Could do, aspiring to the Holy Flame,
To keep soul free from earth. His nourishment—
Whereon the sun its vital ray had sent—
Pure water, simple fruit, white flesh of bird,
Was more than he required, he oft averred.
In mystic posture he besought Mehen,
The Word, that he might wisdom pure attain.
He could at will ascend from solid ground
And float above, while crowds up looked spellbound.
Soon after Sovereign Can, without a throe,
Cay passed away, bewailed by high and low.
Around his flaming pyre, bowed in the dust,
All wept for him in whom they’d put their trust.
Can’s first-born son then filled the Pontiff’s place;
Thenceforth he would by every means efface
The jealous hatred rankling in Aac’s mind;
But he alas! with passion grew more blind;
For now that Móo was Queen, and consort Coh,
Her love he ne’er could win, nor him o’erthrow.
To Móo came other joys with baby lips;
Pure bliss from soft caressing finger tips.
[Illustration: Plate III.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Plate IV.]
III.
Beyond her palace wall Móo heard the chant
Of worshiper imploring Heaven to grant
Its bounteous rain, fresh life to Mother Earth,
The parched land to revive and save from dearth:
When the Master doth rise
To appear in the east
The four corners of heaven are released,
And my broken accents fall
Into the hands of Him who giveth all.
When clouds from east ascend
To the Orderer’s throne—
Ah Tzolan, who thirteen cloud-banks rules alone—
Where the lords cloud-tearers wait,
Biding the will of Ah Tzolan the Great,
Then the Keeper who sees
The gods’ nectar ferment,
With these guardians of crops is content;
They his holy offerings place
Before the Father, pleading for His grace.
I too my offering make,
Of beauteous virgin bird,
And myself lacerate, breathing holy word.
Thee I love! then heed my cry!
My offering place in hands of the Most High.
Could Móo in far off days forget that prayer?
Ah no! for as it died upon the air
A messenger appeared; his words sought vent—
Ill tidings had to him their fleetness lent.
Poor human heart! that blenches, quivers, shrinks,
Appalled at fatal stroke that swift unlinks
Two lives attuned to one harmonious breath.
O loving heart! thy cruel foe is Death.
With _this_ compared all other anguish pales;
To soothe _this_ pang no human aid avails.
Affrighted eyes met hers—“Speak! speak!” she cried.
Heart knew and leaped—“Thou art alone!” it sighed.
In broken words the dire event was told—
The herald was forbidden to withhold
The worst. Then fiercely battled in Móo’s breast
Wild rage and grief, while he obeyed her hest.
Scarce gone the man, when doubt brought some relief—
He must be mad! Allured by this belief
She fixed her gaze on Hope’s illusive beam—
“Untrue the tale! a frightful, ghastly dream!
He dead! Impossible! Sore wounded, yes,
As oft; his voice would ease her keen distress.
The valiant Coh could never vanquished be,
Victorious from every fight came he.”
Thus to herself, forbidding other thought,
And from her palace rushed, not caring aught
For those who would detain her steps, she fled
To meet the Prince; her servitors she led.
He came surrounded by a mighty crowd.
“Make way for us!” the Queen’s men cried aloud—
“The Queen is here!” Her breath was all but spent.
The bearers stopped; with cries the air was rent.
Then bending low, her arms about him flung,
She gasped! To his, cold set, her hot lips clung.
Beneath an arch of warriors’ shields upraised,
She saw, she felt; in death Coh’s eyes were glazed.
Ah! woful sight! ’twas more than Móo could bear—
She fell, unconscious of the tender care
On her bestowed, as homeward borne apace;
Far happier had she been in Death’s embrace.
’Neath holy Ceiba tree, upon the ground,
Struck down by one unknown, Coh had been found.
Whence came the treacherous foe? From foreign land?
Beloved by all was Coh—Whose then the hand?
With brother’s blood would Aac himself imbrue?
This thought in vain she struggled to subdue.
“I rave!” she cried; her mind with doubt was torn;
Those brothers royal were from one womb born.
“O wretched man! O cruel, monstrous fate!
Our Prince was sacrificed to mortal hate!
Unarmed was he when came the stealthy foe
Behind, to strike unseen the vengeful blow.
Thrice stabbed, Coh reeled and fell. Then turned to flee
His slayer, who rejoiced alive and free!”
With passion’s anguish riven, loud she moaned—
Could she forgive? Must this crime be condoned?
A deed so foul by her own brother base—
What act could e’er such deep-set blot efface?
For brother-consort by a brother slain
Must she herself with bloody vengeance stain?
To dark despair the Queen bereft gave way,
Nor heeded anyone who tried to stay
Her grief, until the Pontiff Cay came—
Successor to the Sage who’d borne that name.
Alone with Móo he groaned, “’Tis Aac I see!
His life is ours to take; but this would be
[Illustration: Plate V.]
With crime as infamous ourselves to brand—
Let not two fratricides accurse the land!
Our impulse to avenge must be suppressed;
Nor may our soul by anger be possessed.
Let Aac himself convict. Do thou, I pray,
Request his presence here—he’ll quick obey.”
Aac’s handsome face wore mask of grief until
The High Priest sternly thus expressed his will:
“Our dauntless Coh is slain by one unknown;
The coward’s blood for this crime should atone.
The Maya nation mourns—be thine the task
To see the culprit found—’tis all we ask.”
Aac’s features changed, with ardor he exclaimed—
“Not so! no blameless man shall be defamed
For what my passion wrought—all mine the guilt!
No clemency beg I—do as thou wilt.”
There spake Aac’s better self; just thought inbred
Outbreathed. With pity touched, Móo’s loathing fled.
Nor could a child of Can know aught of fear;
Aac boldly stood, the Pontiff’s word to hear.
“Thou shalt live on; hast made thyself accurst!
Not thus will we—let fools for vengeance thirst.
From Chicħen, go! thy face we would not see.
An edict from our hand shall safeguard thee;
For, mark this well, the people soon must know
Prince Aac alone hath dared to deal the blow.
I see that war upon us thou wilt bring,
And finally, thyself proclaim as king.
Afflicted Móo will feel thy cruel ire;
Thus wilt thou weave for thee a fate most dire.
Myself, thy elder brother, thou’lt degrade;
Cans’ dynasty shall fall, by thee betrayed.”
Thus forth from royal city Aac was sent,
Empowered on native soil where’er he went,
To live in princely state, with means endowed,
While unto law and Sovereign’s will he bowed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IV.
Sun-Scorched, for tears athirst was Chicħen’s square;
The funeral bed ’mid wailing crowds rose there.
Here many noble structures had a place,
With carvings red and gold upon their face.
The lofty stronghold in their midst, appeared
Like pyramid of human beings reared;
From base to summit on each side were seen
Brave men who for their chief felt sorrow keen.
On temple’s mound crowds flocked to view the square,
And hum of million voices filled the air.
Each road that led within the city wall
Was packed with mourning populace; and all
Betrayed the grief they felt. The flowers fair
In well-kept beds, the burden seemed to share
Of nation’s woe; all drooped their dainty heads,
Entreating those sweet tears that heaven sheds.
With Priestess Nicté, Móo was near the pyre,
To light the cedar logs with sacred fire.
Piled high were these, with odorous plants between;
And many lovely garlands too were seen.
The priests in flowing robes were stationed round:
By solemn rite the rank of each was bound.
First those in yellow clad, the sun-god’s sheen;
Then soothing wisdom-ray, fair nature’s green;
The next in line of blue robes made display,
Grief sanctified—the mourners sad array,
Beyond stood many others all in white;
And last, full armed as ready for the fight,
The orators of war, in gowns of red.—
Their ardent words to victory oft had led.
Long lance they bore, as on the battle field
Where glowed their eloquence—nor would one yield,
Except to Yum Cimil, but onward pressed
And dauntless to the last urged on the rest.
These now restrained the crowd that thronged the ground:
In that vast square no tearless eye was found.
Móo’s sister Nicté, priestess of the Light,
Sustained the hapless Queen thro’ funeral rite.
Coh’s heart, concealed within a close shut urn,
Was near the corpse, to char while that should burn.
That flames might higher leap and quick consume,
Fine scented oils, the hot air to perfume,
By priestly hand were lavishly out-poured
Upon the shroud of him whom all deplored.
Around the pyre, with measured step and slow,
His comrades, arms reversed, must three times go
Unto the left, anear the funeral bed,
That evil spirits might not reach the dead.
Thrice round they went, their object to attain,
All chanting as they
|
door with a snap, then
came running downstairs, humming and patting the banisters with her hand
as she came—so as to give warning of her approach.
She entered the dining-room. The girl was sitting in the arm-chair now,
and stood up nervously as Pamela came in. She was a pale, thin girl,
with large dark eyes and black hair, and her movements were nervous and
jerky. She wore a dark-coloured skirt and a white silk blouse with
short sleeves to the elbow, which made her look very cold, and
emphasized the thinness of her arms.
The two girls gazed at each other for a second, then Pamela gave a
friendly smile.
"As there’s no one here to introduce us, we’ll introduce ourselves,
shall we? I’m Pamela Heath," she said.
"I’m Beryl Cranswick," said the girl, smiling shyly.
Pamela held out her hand, and they shook hands.
"I’m so glad to meet you," said Pamela. "I suppose we are the first two
to arrive."
"I suppose so," said Beryl, which did not help matters forward at all.
"What time did you arrive?" asked Pamela. "I came by the four o’clock
train from Marylebone."
"I arrived here this afternoon about three," Beryl informed her.
"Oh, you’ve been here a long time then—it’s just gone six now. I didn’t
know you were here when I came—they didn’t mention it to me.... But have
you had any tea yet?"
Beryl shook her head.
"Why—why ever not?" said Pamela, in surprise, ringing the bell by the
fireplace. "We’ll have some at once, shall we?"
"They did ask me if I’d have some—but I said I’d wait. I—I didn’t like
to—to bother them—till you came," stammered Beryl.
"Why, you must have been awfully cold and hungry after that long railway
journey; you _should_ have had a cup of tea and something—I’m sure it
wouldn’t have been a bit of trouble to them," said Pamela, seizing the
poker and stirring up the fire. "Sit down and have a good warm—you look
quite cold still. We’ll soon have this fire... there! that’s better."
Ellen appeared at this moment, in answer to the bell.
"Oh, could we have some tea, please?" said Pamela. "What time are the
other arrivals expected, can you tell me?"
"I don’t know, miss," replied Ellen. "At least, not for
certain—sometime to-day, that’s all Miss Crabingway told us. The last
down train gets in at Barrowfield at midnight."
"Oh, I see. Well, it’s no good waiting for them, I suppose—we’d better
have tea now in case they don’t arrive till midnight," said Pamela.
"Very well, miss. I’ll bring it in at once," and Ellen departed.
It was rather a queer experience for Pamela, playing hostess in this
strange house to strange people, but her frank, easy manners helped her
considerably.
Beryl, in Pamela’s position, would have suffered agonies of indecision
and nervousness, and she felt thankful she was not in Pamela’s shoes,
though she certainly envied the unself-conscious ease with which Pamela
managed things. They were really quite small, insignificant things, but
to Beryl, very self-conscious and timid, they would have caused much
dismay. Beryl was passing through a stage of acute self-consciousness,
not due to vanity in the slightest, but to nerves. Even to eat in
public was a misery to her; although she was aware that she was
scrupulously particular in the way she drank or ate her food, yet she
hated having to have meals with other people; she always felt that they
were watching her—criticizing her.
And so, when she and Pamela had tea together for the first time, she
hardly ate or drank anything. Unfortunately, by accident, she got a plum
jam stone in her mouth and did not like to remove it, suffering much
discomfort in consequence until Pamela’s attention being distracted to
the window blind behind her for a moment, Beryl quickly conveyed the
stone to her plate again, and finished her tea in peace. Pamela, who
was as fastidious as anyone in her table manners, was yet quite easy,
and appeared to enjoy a huge tea with comfort and daintiness combined.
Beryl certainly did envy her that evening. She wondered what Pamela
would have done if she had got a plum stone in her mouth—and rather
wished this could happen so that she might see how easily Pamela would
act. But Beryl’s luck was out; no such opportunity occurred.
Over tea Pamela gave Beryl a long account of her home and people, and
then began making inquiries about Beryl’s home. But Beryl was strangely
reticent, and only stated a few bald facts. She was an orphan, she said;
no brothers—no sisters—and her father and mother had been dead many
years; her aunt, with whom she lived, had her home just outside
London—at Enfield. Beryl said she had never been to boarding-school;
no, she didn’t go out much—didn’t know many people—they lived very
quietly—and so on. From Beryl’s manner Pamela gathered that she did not
wish to discuss her home or aunt, so the matter was dropped, and Pamela
suggested that when tea was over they should ask Martha or Ellen to show
them over the house, so that they would know their way about.
Both Martha and Ellen professed themselves delighted to show them over
the house, and so both of them accompanied the two girls on a tour of
inspection. Martha, who liked to do things thoroughly while she was
about it, insisted on them seeing every room and cupboard from top to
bottom of the house, with the exception, of course, of the locked-up
room at the end of the first floor landing.
On this landing there were five rooms: the locked-up room ran right
across the front of the house, the locked door being opposite the
stair-head; on either side of the landing were two rooms—all four to be
used as bedrooms for the girls, each having a separate room to herself.
The rooms allotted to Pamela and Isobel Prior were on the left, Isobel’s
adjoining the locked room; Beryl’s room was opposite to Pamela’s, and
her next-door neighbour was to be Caroline Weston.
Another flight of stairs, starting near by Beryl’s door, led up to
Martha’s and Ellen’s rooms, the bath-room and airing cupboards, and
another spare bedroom.
The ground floor included the dining-room (which we have already seen)
and, on the opposite side of the hall, a large drawing-room with French
windows that led into the garden. Next door to the dining-room, and at
the back of the house, was a queer little room with books all round the
walls, a huge writing-desk (much too large for the rest of the
furniture), half a dozen odd chairs, an old spinning-wheel, and a glass
cabinet full of curiosities. This was called the ’study,’ Martha said,
where Miss Crabingway read or attended to her correspondence; but, in
spite of the books, it looked more like an interesting museum of odds
and ends. A spacious kitchen and scullery with a big larder, and a cosy
little sitting-room, leading out of the kitchen, and set apart for the
use of Martha and Ellen, completed the ground floor.
There seemed to be a good many windows in each room, so it ought to be a
light house in the daytime, Pamela thought; otherwise her first
impression of sombre richness was strengthened after seeing over the
rest of the house. The furniture and fittings were all good and
heavy-looking; the walls were everywhere crowded with pictures—some
originals, some copies of well-known pictures, and some photographic
picture studies of people and places. There were carpets and dark
furniture in every room. And what struck Pamela as being very strange
was that each room in the house had at least one odd-sized piece of
furniture in it—either much too large or much too small to be in keeping
with the rest of the room; and this particular piece, in each case,
seemed to occupy a very prominent position, so that one couldn’t help
noticing it. It reminded Pamela of the doll’s house belonging to Olive
at home, where the doll’s kettle and saucepan were the same size as the
chairs, and too big to stand on the doll’s kitchen stove. She wondered
how Miss Crabingway had come to possess these odd bits of furniture, and
was just looking at the extraordinarily small piano-stool set before the
huge grand piano in the drawing-room, when a sudden ring at the bell
announced a fresh arrival, and Martha hurried out of the room to open
the front door.
*CHAPTER IV*
*THE ROOM WITH THE LOCKED DOOR*
Isobel Prior and Caroline Weston had arrived together, having travelled
in the same railway carriage, each ignorant of the fact that the other
was bound for Chequertrees, until the waiting cab at the station had
made this known to them.
"I’m simply _dead_," were the first words Pamela heard as she came out
of the drawing-room to greet the new-comer. The speaker was a
well-dressed, fluffy-haired girl with an aristocratic voice and bearing,
who was standing in the hall amid a pile of luggage.
"Why, that sounds a cheerful beginning! Who is it that’s dead?" asked
Pamela laughingly, as she came forward.
The girl stared rather haughtily at Pamela for a second, then smiled and
shook hands.
"Oh, I suppose you are Miss Heath," she said. "I am Miss Prior. I’ve
had a perfectly impossible journey here to-day, and I’m simply fagged
out and perishingly cold."
"We must get you something hot to drink," said Pamela, "and you must
have a good rest. Would you like to come straight into the dining-room
and have a warm—there’s a lovely fire there—or would you rather go up to
your bedroom first?"
"Oh, _please_—a wash and tidy up first," said Isobel. "I must look such
a fright——"
And then Pamela noticed that another girl was standing beside Martha,
just inside the front door. A big plush curtain in the hall almost hid
her from view.
"I’m awfully sorry—I didn’t see anyone else had arrived," said Pamela.
"Are you—are you Miss Caroline Weston?"
The girl gazed stolidly at Pamela—a heavily-made girl, plumpish, and
wearing spectacles; she carried a very neat handbag in one hand and a
very neatly rolled umbrella in the other hand.
"Y-e-s," she said, in a slow, drawling voice.
Pamela shook her warmly by the hand, and then offered to take the two
girls upstairs and show them their rooms. As they passed the
drawing-room door Pamela caught sight of Beryl, who was waiting shyly in
the background, and she immediately introduced her to the others.
"Beryl and I have just been shown over the house," Pamela explained.
"We only arrived to-day, of course—a few hours ago—I expect you’re too
tired to want to bother to see all round to-night, and if you are you
must go over it in the morning. Then we shall all know our way about,
shan’t we? Come along, Beryl, let’s take these poor weary travellers up
to their rooms. And, Martha, can we have some hot supper—in about
twenty minutes, please?"
Once again the house was astir with the bustle of welcoming the latest
arrivals. Martha vanished into the kitchen to prepare something hot and
tasty for supper, while Ellen hurried to and fro with warm water for
washing, and carried boxes and parcels upstairs, and lit gases, and
pulled down blinds, and generally made herself useful, while Pamela,
followed by Beryl, showed Isobel and Caroline to their rooms, doing her
best as hostess to make them feel comfortable and at home.
Over supper the four girls became better acquainted. Naturally they
were all very curious to know why Miss Crabingway had invited the four
of them to Chequertrees, and they studied each other with interest,
trying to find an answer to the riddle. Following Pamela’s friendly
lead they talked of themselves, and their homes, and the journey to
Barrowfield. That is, all of them talked a good deal with the exception
of Beryl, who still seemed very shy and only spoke when she was
addressed directly.
Pamela was in one of her ’beamy’ moods that night. She beamed and
laughed and talked and thoroughly enjoyed herself during supper, not a
little excited by all the strange surroundings and the strange new
acquaintances she was making; perhaps it was her genuine interest in
everything and everybody that made her so jolly a companion—and so
unself-conscious a one. Anyway, she liked girls—nearly all girls—and
they liked her as a rule. Of course she had her dislikes, but on the
whole she got on very well with girls of her own age. How was she going
to like and get on with these girls, all about her own age, who were
sitting at supper with her this evening, she asked herself.
She felt vaguely sorry for Beryl, as if she wanted to protect her,
because Beryl seemed so painfully shy and ill at ease; her clothes were
cheap-looking and unsuitable for the time of year.
Isobel seemed to Pamela to be slightly disdainful of everything and
everybody; she had a habit of over-emphasizing unimportant words when
she talked, and appeared at times to exaggerate too much. Her clothes
were well chosen and evidently of very good material, and well tailored.
Her features, framed by her pretty, fluffy hair, were clear-cut and
refined; she would have been a pretty girl had it not been for her eyes,
which were deep-set and a trifle too close together. She talked a good
deal about her ’mater’ and ’pater,’ and her brother Gerald and his
motor-car.
Caroline, beside Isobel, looked very plain, and almost dowdy, in spite
of the fact that her clothes were good—the reason being that her clothes
did not suit her at all. She had no idea how to make the best of
herself; her one great idea was to be neat at all costs. Her
drab-coloured hair was brushed back smoothly, in a most trying fashion;
and never by any chance would she have a button or hook missing from any
of her clothing, nor a hole in her stocking—and this was a credit to
her, because she worked as slowly with her needle as she did with
everything else, though it must be owned that she was very fond of
sewing. Very slow, very methodical, very neat—such was Caroline. "I
believe she even dusts and wraps up in tissue paper each needle and pin
and reel of cotton after she has finished with it," was Isobel’s opinion
after she had known her a week; and although this may sound like one of
Isobel’s exaggerated remarks, yet it was nearer the truth than she
herself dreamt when she said it.
What acquaintance had Miss Crabingway had with these three girls, Pamela
wondered. And what had made her choose them—and herself. They made an
oddly assorted quartette.
As they were rising from the supper-table she asked them whether any of
them knew Miss Crabingway well, and learnt to her surprise that none of
them had more than the slightest acquaintance with her. Neither Isobel
not Caroline could remember ever seeing Miss Crabingway, and Beryl said
vaguely that she had seen her once—a long time ago. Beryl said she
believed that her mother had been a friend of Miss Crabingway’s, many
years back. Isobel said her mater had met Miss Crabingway abroad—had
happened to stay in the same hotel—about six years ago. An uncle of
Caroline’s, so she informed them, had once done some business
transactions with Miss Crabingway, and had corresponded with her since,
at intervals.
"Well, I can’t make it out at all," thought Pamela to herself. "Why
Miss Crabingway should have invited us—four girls—practically strangers
to her—to come and stay at her house while she is away.... I can’t see
any reason for it.... Anyway, I suppose we shall know when she returns."
The supper having considerably revived Isobel, she said she would like
to see over the house before she went to bed; and Caroline, having no
objection ready against this suggestion (except that she was half asleep
in her chair), found herself joining in this tour of inspection and
stolidly taking stock of the house that was to be her home for the next
six months.
In a whispered aside to Pamela Isobel pronounced the dining-room
wall-paper ’hideous’ and the drawing-room decorations ’perfectly
awful’—both remarks being overhead by Ellen, who glared at the back of
Isobel’s head in silent indignation at this reflection on her mistress’s
taste. It was certainly not good manners on Isobel’s part, but she was
not over-sensitive about other people’s feelings, and was rarely aware
of the fact when her words or tone of voice had hurt or given offence.
On the first floor landing Pamela pointed out the locked door. The
girls knew that they were forbidden to try to open it, or look through
the keyhole, their instructions being the same as Pamela’s.
[Illustration: ON THE FIRST FLOOR LANDING PAMELA POINTED OUT THE LOCKED
DOOR]
"And to think that one little action—just kneeling down and putting your
eye to the keyhole—would make you lose fifty pounds!" exclaimed Isobel.
"It’s not worth losing all that money just for curiosity, is it?"
"Rather not," said Pamela. "I vote that we all keep away from that door
as if the paint on it were poisonous to touch."
"I’m sorry my room’s next to it," Isobel went on, "but it doesn’t really
matter—though I like to keep as far away from temptation as I can...
not that I _want_ to look inside, but—you know the feeling—just because
I know I mustn’t——"
"I know the feeling," agreed Pamela. "But don’t you think it would be
wisest not to talk about it any more, or we shall all be dreaming about
it to-night."
Ellen, who was leading the way up to the top floor where her own room
and Martha’s room were situated, pricked up her ears at this.
"Dreams go by contrary," she said to herself mechanically, and,
apparently, without meaning. Besides being a mine of information on
melancholy events, Ellen was a great believer in dreams, possessing as
many as ten ’dream books,’ which she consulted frequently on the meaning
of her dreams. Ellen believed also in fortune-telling by tea-leaves, and
lucky stars, and the like. And many a time she had made even Martha—who
knew her little ways and generally laughed tolerantly at her—turn
’goose-flesh’ at the terrible fate she would read out for Martha and
herself from the tea-leaves left in their cups.
"Do you believe it’s possible to _dream_ what is inside that room—I mean
dream truly—if you set your mind on it just before going to sleep?"
Isobel asked of Pamela, as she glanced round the bath-room.
Caroline, who was examining everything in the bath-room closely and
minutely, as was her habit, raised her head as if to speak, but Pamela,
who had her back turned to her and did not see her mouth open, replied:
"I don’t know. I’m afraid I’m not an expert on dreams—I hardly ever
dream myself."
"Wouldn’t it be fun," suggested Isobel, as they all made their way
downstairs again, "if each of us tried hard to dream what was inside the
room—and then tell each other what dreams we had had, in the morning—and
when Miss Crabingway comes back we will see if any of us are right."
"Oh, I don’t know," said Pamela. "Somehow I don’t think we’d better
even try to dream what is inside the room. Perhaps it isn’t quite fair
to—to—I don’t know how to put it— Anyway, I think it would be better if
we left the subject entirely alone, don’t you?"
Again Caroline opened her mouth and was about to say something, when
Isobel burst in with,
"Oh, but Miss Crabingway didn’t say we were not to _dream_ about it, did
she?... That would be impossible to forbid.... But still, perhaps it’s
best not to meddle with the subject. It’s not worth losing fifty pounds
over, anyway."
Beryl, although she had accompanied the others over the house, had not
spoken a word since they left the dining-room, but she had listened to
all that was going on with much interest. Here was another girl,
Isobel, who seemed quite at home among strangers in a strange house,
thought Beryl; but she did not envy Isobel; she was vaguely afraid of
her. Caroline appeared more at her ease than Beryl had expected her to
be; though Caroline seemed to others slow and awkward, she was not aware
of this herself, and so was not made uneasy on that score. Caroline did
not know her own failings, while Beryl was keenly alive to _her_ own—and
suffered accordingly.
As the four girls bid each other good-night a few minutes later,
Caroline found the opportunity she had been waiting for, and mentioned
something that had been fidgeting her since her arrival.
"Oh—er—do you know if my room has been well aired?" she asked slowly,
reminding Pamela irresistibly of an owl as she gazed solemnly through
her spectacles. "I’m rather subject to chills—and mother told me to be
sure and see that my bedroom had been well aired."
Fortunately Martha was able to assure her on this point, and Caroline
went upstairs apparently content. But before she went to sleep she
thoroughly fingered the sheets and pillow-cases to satisfy herself that
Martha was a strictly truthful person.
When, at length, every one had retired and all was quiet, a little
breeze arose in the garden and scurried round the house, whispering
excitedly among the ivy leaves. But though the breeze ruffled and
agitated the cloak of ivy, it had no power to stir the old house
beneath, which stood, grim and unmoved, brooding in silence over the
strangers within its walls.
*CHAPTER V*
*MAKING PLANS*
In the morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Pamela held an informal
’council meeting’ in the drawing-room.
"I thought we’d better just talk over some sort of plan for organizing
things, so that we shall all be as comfortable as possible," she said,
leaning her elbow on the small round table before her and resting her
chin in the palm of her hand. "You see, it isn’t as if there was a real
hostess here—you know what I mean—it isn’t as if we could drop into the
ordinary life of the household. Here we are—four strangers yesterday,
four acquaintances to-day—and we’ve got to live and work and play
together for the next six months. Now what are the best arrangements to
make, so that we’ll all have a good time? It’s left entirely in our
hands. Anybody got any suggestions?" She looked smilingly round at the
other three girls.
Isobel was the only one who answered.
"Of course we didn’t know _what_ we should be expected to do when we
came here," she said. "It was all such an _awful_ hurry and
scramble—there was no time to think of anything."
"I know," agreed Pamela. "But now we are here, we’d better have some
sort of plan, don’t you think—so as to leave each other as free as
possible—I do hate tying people down to time and—and things—but we’ll
have to have some sort of arrangements about meals, for instance, or
else we’ll keep Martha and Ellen busy all day long. Luckily, we’ve got
hardly any housekeeping difficulties. I had a talk with Martha and
Ellen this morning, before breakfast, and they’re going on with their
work just as usual. Martha does all the cooking and washing, and Ellen
does the general work. But I expect four girls in the house will make a
good bit of difference! So I propose that we each make our own bed and
tidy our own room every morning—and Ellen will clean the rooms out once
a week. It won’t take each of us long of a morning. What do you say?"
Beryl agreed at once; and Isobel, though she said she wasn’t _used_ to
doing housework, promised to do her best; Caroline was understood to say
she preferred making her own bed because other people never made a bed
to her satisfaction.
Having settled this little point, Pamela went on:
"As regards shopping—Martha says she always sees about getting in
provisions, but she would like us to say what we’d like for breakfasts,
and dinners, and so on. She says Miss Emily Crabingway left a sum of
money with her for purchasing enough food for the next three months;
after that time has elapsed, Mr Joseph Sigglesthorne is to send on a
further sum—enough for the final three months. You see that’s all
arranged for us; but we’ve got to choose the meals, and I thought it
would be a good plan if we took it in turns, each week—first one, then
the other—to draw up a list of meals for the week. Write it all out,
and take it in to Martha. What do you think? Martha likes the idea."
"I’m quite willing, but I don’t believe I could think of enough variety
for a week straight off," said Beryl.
"Oh, yes, you could," said Pamela, "with the help of Mrs Beeton’s
Cookery Book—there are no end of hints in there. Martha has a copy of
the book on a shelf in the kitchen; she’ll lend it to us. She says it’s
very useful, but rather too extravagant for her liking, with its ’break
eight eggs and beat them well,’ and ’take ten eggs’ and ’take six eggs’
and so on. Martha says she always looks up a recipe in Mrs Beeton’s,
and then makes it her own way (which is always quite different)."
"As long as you don’t choose boiled haddock every morning," said Isobel,
"and don’t give us lamb chops and mashed potatoes every dinner-time—with
rice pudding to follow—I’m sure we’ll none of us try to assassinate you
on the quiet."
"I don’t mind taking my turn at choosing the meals," said Caroline,
thinking tenderly of suet roly-poly.
"And I’ll do what I can," remarked Isobel, more in her element when
choosing work for others to perform than in doing work herself. She had
momentary visions of how she would astonish the others by the
magnificence of her menus; none of the ’homely’ dishes for Isobel; with
the aid of Mrs Beeton, who knows what might not be accomplished in the
way of exclusive and awe-inspiring dishes. "But _you_ choose the first
week’s meals, _do_," she begged Pamela.
As this suggestion was proposed, seconded, and carried unanimously by
the others, Pamela agreed, and so the matter was settled.
"Having now disposed of our housekeeping duties," Pamela laughed, "now
what are we going to do with the rest of our time? Had any of you any
idea of keeping up studies, or attending classes, or anything of that
sort? You see we are left idle—to act entirely on our own
initiative—without any suggestions or arrangements whatever on Miss
Crabingway’s part. And I know that, speaking for myself, I don’t want
to idle away the next six months."
"_I_ shouldn’t mind being idle," observed Isobel. "In fact mater said
the six months’ rest would do me no harm. I was just going back to
college, you know, when we heard from Miss Crabingway—and of course all
my plans were upset—but I didn’t mind so much with the prospect of a
lovely, lazy holiday at Barrowfield. But still, if you are all going to
take up some sort of work, I suppose I must, as well.... I should be
bored to death with my own company—if you are all going to work."
"I only suggest a few hours’ work each day," reminded Pamela. "It makes
the day seem so much more satisfactory when one has _done_ something."
The question of what to study, and how to study, gave much food for
discussion; but the subject was prevented from taking too serious a turn
by Isobel’s constant stream of facetious remarks on the kind of work she
would take up. She seemed to think it a huge joke; though Caroline, who
was apt to take things literally, was much perturbed at the numerous
studies Isobel proposed, until she realized that Isobel was only making
fun all the time.
"I should prefer to keep up my music," said Beryl, presently. "And
study hard at theory, harmony, and counterpoint—and if it wouldn’t annoy
anyone—perhaps I could practise on the piano here. I—I should love
that."
"Of course it wouldn’t annoy anyone, would it?" Pamela appealed to the
other two, who said that it certainly wouldn’t annoy them.
"It isn’t as if it were the five-finger exercise—thump—thump—thump,"
added Caroline cautiously.
"Well, we should _hope_ you’d got beyond that," said Isobel to Beryl,
who flushed nervously.
"Oh, yes," she hastened to assure them.
"There are worse things than the five-finger exercise," broke in Pamela.
"I have a sister at home who knows _one_ piece, and whenever she gets
near the piano she sits down and plays it—thumps it, I should
say—because she ’knows we love it,’ she says. We always howl at her, on
principle, and the nearest of us swoops down on her, and bears her,
protesting, out of the room."
The others laughed with Pamela at this recollection of hers, and
attention was distracted from Beryl, much to her relief.
"Well," said Pamela, "for myself—I am going to do a heap of
reading—especially historical books; and I want most of all to continue
my sketching. I’m very fond of dabbling in black and white sketching—and
I want lots of practice. I’ve brought with me some books about it—to
study."
"Oh, you _energetic_ people," yawned Isobel. "It makes me tired to
think of the work you’re going to do."
"What are you going to do?" Pamela asked, turning to Caroline.
"Well," drawled Caroline, "I like doing needlework better than
anything."
Isobel put her handkerchief to her mouth to hide a smile. Fortunately
Caroline was not looking at her, but Beryl was. Caroline went on
undisturbed.
"I’m not fond of reading or books, but I’ve been thinking—if there were
any classes near by, on dressmaking—cutting out and all that, you
know—that I could attend, I wouldn’t mind that; but anyway I’ve got
plenty of plain needlework to go on with. I brought a dozen
handkerchiefs in my box to hem and embroider—and I’ve got a tray-cloth
to hem-stitch."
"Mind you don’t overtax your brain, my dear," muttered Isobel, giggling
into her handkerchief.
"Eh?" asked Caroline, not catching her remark.
"Nothing," said Isobel. "I was only wondering what work I could do."
"I daresay you’ll be able to find some dress-making classes, Caroline,"
said Pamela. "We’ll go out and buy a local paper and see what’s going
on. But, Isobel, what are _you_ going to do?" Pamela asked, looking
across at Isobel.
"Ah me!" sighed Isobel. "Well, if I must decide, I’ll decide on
dancing. I’m frightfully keen on dancing, you know. I’ll attend
classes for that if you like—that is, if there are such things as
dancing classes in this sleepy little place.... I might do a bit of
photography too. I didn’t bring my camera—but perhaps I can buy a new
one—it’s great fun taking snapshots."
"If there are no classes in Barrowfield there is almost sure to be a
town within a few miles, where we can get what we want," Pamela said.
Matters now being settled as far as was possible at the present moment,
Pamela said she was going out to look round the village, and Isobel
immediately said she would go with her as she wanted to buy some buttons
for her gloves. Beryl would have liked to go with Pamela, but felt
sensitive about visiting the village for the first time in Isobel’s
company—for more than one reason; so she said she would go and unpack
her box and get her music books out, and look round the village later
on. Caroline also elected to stay and unpack and put her room in order.
So Pamela and Isobel started off together.
They had been gone but five minutes when the post arrived with a
registered letter addressed to Pamela.
"Ah," said Martha knowingly, as she laid the letter in the tray on the
hall-stand.
*CHAPTER VI*
*MILLICENT JACKSON GIVES SOME INFORMATION*
"What a one-eyed sort of place this is," said Isobel inelegantly, as she
came out of the village drapery establishment and joined Pamela, who was
waiting on the green outside.
"I was just thinking how charming the little village looks," said
Pamela, "clustering round this wide stretch of green with the pond and
the ducks. And look at the lanes and hills and woods rising in the
background! It _is_ picturesque."
"Oh, it may be frightfully picturesque and all that," Isobel replied,
"but picturesqueness won’t provide one with black pearl buttons to sew
on one’s gloves. Would you believe it—not one of these _impossible_
shops keeps such things. ’Black pearl buttons, miss. I’m sorry we
haven’t any in stock. Black _bone_—would black bone do—or a fancy
button, miss?’" Isobel mimicked the voice of the ’creature’ (as she
called her) who served in the tiny draper’s shop.
"Well, I suppose they’re not often asked for black pearl," said Pamela,
as they moved on. "And wouldn’t black bone do?"
"Black _bone_!" said Isobel disdainfully.
"Well, you can’t expect to find Oxford Street shops down here in
Barrowfield," smiled Pamela. "And it’s jolly lucky there aren’t such
shops, or Barrowfield would be a _town_ to-morrow. Still, is there
anywhere else you’d like to try?"
"No, I shan’t bother any more to-day," Isobel sighed. "I did want
them—but I’ll wear my other gloves till I can get the buttons to match
the two I’ve lost.... How people do _stare_ at one here. Look at that
old woman over there—And, oh, do look at the butcher standing on his
step _glaring_ at us! He looks as if his eyes might go off ’pop’ at any
moment, doesn’t he?"
Although Isobel pretended to be annoyed, she really rather enjoyed the
attention she and Pamela were attracting. Naturally the village was
curious about these strange young ladies who had come to stay at Miss
Crabingway’s house. Thomas Bagg had given his version of the arrivals
last night as he chatted with the landlord of the ’Blue Boar,’ and had
professed to know more about the matter than he actually did. In acting
thus he was not alone, for most of the village pretended to know
something of the reason why Miss Emily Crabingway had suddenly gone
away, and why her house was occupied by four strange young ladies. In
reality nobody knew much about it at all. It speaks well for Martha and
Ellen that they were not persuaded to tell more than they did; maybe
they didn’t know more; maybe they _did_, but wouldn’t say. The village
gossips shook their heads at the closeness of these two
|
mother
never can learn to appreciate the fine qualities of the anthropoids. One
might almost think that she objected to the suggestion that she had
mated with one of them.”
“John Clayton, I shall never speak to you again if you don’t stop saying
such hideous things. I am ashamed of you. It is bad enough that you are
an unregenerate wild-man, without trying to suggest that you may be an
ape into the bargain.”
The long journey from Pal-ul-don was almost completed—inside the week
they should be again at the site of their former home. Whether anything
now remained of the ruins the Germans had left was problematical. The
barns and outhouses had all been burned and the interior of the bungalow
partially wrecked. Those of the Waziri, the faithful native retainers of
the Greystokes, who had not been killed by Hauptman Fritz Schneider’s
soldiers, had rallied to the beat of the war-drum and gone to place
themselves at the disposal of the English in whatever capacity they
might be found useful to the great cause of humanity. This much Tarzan
had known before he set out in search of Lady Jane; but how many of his
warlike Waziri had survived the war and what further had befallen his
vast estates he did not know. Wandering tribes of natives, or raiding
bands of Arab slavers might have completed the demolition inaugurated by
the Hun, and it was likely, too, that the jungle had swept up and
reclaimed its own, covering his clearings and burying amidst its riot of
lush verdure every sign of man’s brief trespass upon its world-old
preserves.
Following the adoption of the tiny Numa, Tarzan was compelled to an
immediate consideration of the needs of his _protégé_ in planning his
marches and his halts, for the cub must have sustenance and that
sustenance could be naught but milk. Lion’s milk was out of the
question, but fortunately they were now in a comparatively well peopled
country where villages were not infrequent and where the great Lord of
the Jungle was known, feared, and respected, and so it was that upon the
afternoon of the day he had found the young lion Tarzan approached a
village for the purpose of obtaining milk for the cub.
At first the natives appeared sullen and indifferent, looking with
contempt upon whites who traveled without a large safari—with contempt
and without fear. With no safari these strangers could carry no presents
for them, nor anything wherewith to repay for the food they would
doubtless desire, and with no askari they could not demand food, or
rather they could not enforce an order, nor could they protect
themselves should it seem worth while to molest them. Sullen and
indifferent the natives seemed, yet they were scarce unconcerned, their
curiosity being aroused by the unusual apparel and ornamentation of
these whites. They saw them almost as naked as themselves and armed
similarly except that one, the younger man, carried a rifle. All three
wore the trappings of Pal-ul-don, primitive and barbaric, and entirely
strange to the eyes of the simple blacks.
“Where is your chief?” asked Tarzan as he strode into the village
amongst the women, the children, and the yapping dogs.
A few dozing warriors rose from the shadows of the huts where they had
been lying and approached the newcomers.
“The chief sleeps,” replied one. “Who are you to awaken him? What do you
want?”
“I wish to speak to your chief. Go and fetch him!”
The warrior looked at him in wide-eyed amaze, and then broke into a loud
laugh.
“The chief must be brought to him,” he cried, addressing his fellows,
and then, laughing loudly, he slapped his thigh and nudged those nearest
him with his elbows.
“Tell him,” continued the ape-man, “that Tarzan would speak with him.”
Instantly the attitude of his auditors underwent a remarkable
transformation—they fell back from him and they ceased laughing—their
eyes very wide and round. He who had laughed loudest became suddenly
solemn. “Bring mats,” he cried, “for Tarzan and his people to sit upon,
while I fetch Umanga the chief,” and off he ran as fast as he could as
though glad of the excuse to escape the presence of the mighty one he
feared he had offended.
It made no difference now that they had no safari, no askari, nor any
presents. The villagers were vying with one another to do them honor.
Even before the chief came many had already brought presents of food and
ornaments. Presently Umanga appeared. He was an old man who had been a
chief even before Tarzan of the Apes was born. His manner was
patriarchal and dignified and he greeted his guest as one great man
might greet another, yet he was undeniably pleased that the Lord of the
Jungle had honored his village with a visit.
When Tarzan explained his wishes and exhibited the lion cub Umanga
assured him that there would be milk a-plenty so long as Tarzan honored
them with his presence—warm milk, fresh from the chief’s own goats. As
they palavered the ape-man’s keen eyes took in every detail of the
village and its people, and presently they alighted upon a large bitch
among the numerous curs that overran the huts and the street. Her udder
was swollen with milk and the sight of it suggested a plan to Tarzan. He
jerked a thumb in the direction of the animal. “I would buy her,” he
said to Umanga.
“She is yours, Bwana, without payment,” replied the chief. “She whelped
two days since and last night her pups were all stolen from her nest,
doubtless by a great snake; but if you will accept them I will give you
instead as many younger and fatter dogs as you wish, for I am sure that
this one would prove poor eating.”
“I do not wish to eat her,” replied Tarzan. “I will take her along with
me to furnish milk for the cub. Have her brought to me.”
Some boys then caught the animal and tying a thong about its neck
dragged it to the ape-man. Like the lion, the dog was at first afraid,
for the scent of the Tarmangani was not as the scent of the blacks, and
it snarled and snapped at its new master; but at length he won the
animal’s confidence so that it lay quietly beside him while he stroked
its head. To get the lion close to it was, however, another matter, for
here both were terrified by the enemy scent of the other—the lion
snarling and spitting and the dog bare-fanged and growling. It required
patience—infinite patience—but at last the thing was an accomplished
fact and the cur bitch suckled the son of Numa. Hunger had succeeded in
overcoming the natural suspicion of the lion, while the firm yet kindly
attitude of the ape-man had won the confidence of the canine, which had
been accustomed through life to more of cuffs and kicks than kindness.
That night Tarzan had the dog tied in the hut he occupied, and twice
before morning he made her lie while the cub fed. The next day they took
leave of Umanga and his people and with the dog still upon a leash
trotting beside them they set off once more toward home, the young lion
cuddled in the hollow of one of Tarzan’s arms or carried in a sack slung
across his shoulder.
They named the lion Jad-bal-ja, which in the language of the
pithecanthropi of Pal-ul-don, means the Golden Lion, because of his
color. Every day he became more accustomed to them and to his foster
mother, who finally came to accept him as flesh of her flesh. The bitch
they called Za, meaning girl. The second day they removed her leash and
she followed them willingly through the jungle, nor ever after did she
seek to leave them, nor was happy unless she was near one of the three.
As the moment approached when the trail should break from the jungle
onto the edge of the rolling plain where their home had been, the three
were filled with suppressed excitement, though none uttered a syllable
of the hope and fear that was in the heart of each. What would they
find? What _could_ they find other than the same tangled mass of
vegetation that the ape-man had cleared away to build his home when
first he had come there with his bride?
At last they stepped from the concealing verdure of the forest to look
out across the plain where, in the distance, the outlines of the
bungalow had once been clearly discernible nestled amidst the trees and
shrubs that had been retained or imported to beautify the grounds.
“Look!” cried Lady Jane. “It is there—it is still there!”
“But what are those other things to the left, beyond it?” asked Korak.
“They are the huts of natives,” replied Tarzan.
“The fields are being cultivated!” exclaimed the woman.
“And some of the outbuildings have been rebuilt,” said Tarzan. “It can
mean but one thing—the Waziri have come back from the war—my faithful
Waziri. They have restored what the Hun destroyed and are watching over
our home until we return.”
[Illustration: He caught the little lion by the scruff of its neck]
CHAPTER II
THE TRAINING OF JAD-BAL-JA
AND so Tarzan of the Apes, and Jane Clayton, and Korak came home after a
long absence and with them came Jad-bal-ja, the golden lion, and Za, the
bitch. Among the first to meet them and to welcome them home was old
Muviro, father of Wasimbu, who had given his life in defense of the home
and wife of the ape-man.
“Ah, Bwana,” cried the faithful black, “my old eyes are made young again
by the sight of you. It has been long that you have been gone, but
though many doubted that you would return, old Muviro knew that the
great world held nothing that might overcome his master. And so he knew,
too, that his master would return to the home of his love and the land
where his faithful Waziri awaited him; but that she, whom we have
mourned as dead, should have returned is beyond belief, and great shall
be the rejoicing in the huts of the Waziri tonight. And the earth shall
tremble to the dancing feet of the warriors and the heavens ring with
the glad cries of their women, since the three they love most on earth
have come back to them.”
And in truth, great indeed was the rejoicing in the huts of the Waziri.
And not for one night alone, but for many nights did the dancing and the
rejoicing continue until Tarzan was compelled to put a stop to the
festivities that he and his family might gain a few hours of unbroken
slumber. The ape-man found that not only had his faithful Waziri, under
the equally faithful guidance of his English foreman, Jervis, completely
rehabilitated his stables, corrals, and outbuildings as well as the
native huts, but had restored the interior of the bungalow, so that in
all outward appearances the place was precisely as it had been before
the raid of the Germans.
Jervis was at Nairobi on the business of the estate, and it was some
days after their arrival that he returned to the ranch. His surprise and
happiness were no less genuine than those of the Waziri. With the chief
and warriors he sat for hours at the feet of the Big Bwana, listening to
an account of the strange land of Pal-ul-don and the adventures that had
befallen the three during Lady Greystoke’s captivity there, and with the
Waziri he marveled at the queer pets the ape-man had brought back with
him. That Tarzan might have fancied a mongrel native cur was strange
enough, but that he should have adopted a cub of his hereditary enemies,
Numa and Sabor, seemed beyond all belief. And equally surprising to them
all was the manner of Tarzan’s education of the cub.
The golden lion and his foster mother occupied a corner of the ape-man’s
bedroom, and many was the hour each day that he spent in training and
educating the little spotted, yellow ball—all playfulness and affection
now, but one day to grow into a great, savage beast of prey.
As the days passed and the golden lion grew, Tarzan taught it many
tricks—to fetch and carry, to lie motionless in hiding at his almost
inaudible word of command, to move from point to point as he indicated,
to hunt for hidden things by scent and to retrieve them, and when meat
was added to its diet he fed it always in a way that brought grim smiles
to the savage lips of the Waziri warriors, for Tarzan had built for him
a dummy in the semblance of a man and the meat that the lion was to eat
was fastened always at the throat of the dummy. Never did the manner of
feeding vary. At a word from the ape-man the golden lion would crouch,
belly to the ground, and then Tarzan would point at the dummy and
whisper the single word “kill.” However hungry he might be, the lion
learned never to move toward his meat until that single word had been
uttered by its master; and then with a rush and a savage growl it drove
straight for the flesh. While it was little it had difficulty at first
in clambering up the dummy to the savory morsel fastened at the figure’s
throat, but as it grew older and larger it gained the objective more
easily, and finally a single leap would carry it to its goal and down
would go the dummy upon its back with the young lion tearing at its
throat.
There was one lesson that, of all the others, was most difficult to
learn and it is doubtful that any other than Tarzan of the Apes, reared
by beasts, among beasts, could have overcome the savage blood-lust of
the carnivore and rendered his natural instinct subservient to the will
of his master. It took weeks and months of patient endeavor to
accomplish this single item of the lion’s education, which consisted in
teaching him that at the word “fetch” he must find any indicated object
and return with it to his master, even the dummy with raw meat tied at
its throat, and that he must not touch the meat nor harm the dummy nor
any other article that he was fetching, but place them carefully at the
ape-man’s feet. Afterward he learned always to be sure of his reward,
which usually consisted in a double portion of the meat that he loved
best.
Lady Greystoke and Korak were often interested spectators of the
education of the golden lion, though the former expressed mystification
as to the purpose of such elaborate training of the young cub and some
misgivings as to the wisdom of the ape-man’s program.
“What in the world can you do with such a brute after he is grown?” she
asked. “He bids fair to be a mighty Numa. Being accustomed to men he
will be utterly fearless of them, and having fed always at the throat of
a dummy he will look there at the throat of living men for his food
hereafter.”
“He will feed only upon what I tell him to feed,” replied the ape-man.
“But you do not expect him to feed always upon men?” she interrogated,
laughingly.
“He will never feed upon men.”
“But how can you prevent it, having taught him from cubhood always to
feed upon men?”
“I am afraid, Jane, that you under-estimate the intelligence of a lion,
or else I very much over-estimate it. If your theory is correct the
hardest part of my work is yet before me, but if I am right it is
practically complete now. However, we will experiment a bit and see
which is right. We shall take Jad-bal-ja out upon the plain with us this
afternoon. Game is plentiful and we shall have no difficulty in
ascertaining just how much control I have over young Numa after all.”
“I’ll wager a hundred pounds,” said Korak, laughing, “that he does just
what he jolly well pleases after he gets a taste of live blood.”
“You’re on, my son,” said the ape-man. “I think I am going to show you
and your mother this afternoon what you or anyone else never dreamed
could be accomplished.”
“Lord Greystoke, the world’s premier animal trainer!” cried Lady
Greystoke, and Tarzan joined them in their laughter.
“It is not animal training,” said the ape-man. “The plan upon which I
work would be impossible to anyone but Tarzan of the Apes. Let us take a
hypothetical case to illustrate what I mean. There comes to you some
creature whom you hate, whom by instinct and heredity you consider a
deadly enemy. You are afraid of him. You understand no word that he
speaks. Finally, by means sometimes brutal he impresses upon your mind
his wishes. You may do the thing he wants, but do you do it with a
spirit of unselfish loyalty? You do not—you do it under compulsion,
hating the creature that forces his will upon you. At any moment that
you felt it was in your power to do so, you would disobey him. You would
even go further—you would turn upon him and destroy him. On the other
hand, there comes to you one with whom you are familiar; he is a friend,
a protector. He understands and speaks the language that you understand
and speak. He has fed you, he has gained your confidence by kindness and
protection, he asks you to do something for him. Do you refuse? No, you
obey willingly. It is thus that the golden lion will obey me.”
“As long as it suits his purpose to do so,” commented Korak.
“Let me go a step farther then,” said the ape-man. “Suppose that this
creature, whom you love and obey, has the power to punish, even to kill
you, if it is necessary so to do to enforce his commands. How then about
your obedience?”
“We’ll see,” said Korak, “how easily the golden lion will make one
hundred pounds for me.”
That afternoon they set out across the plain, Jad-bal-ja following
Tarzan’s horse’s heels. They dismounted at a little clump of trees some
distance from the bungalow and from there proceeded onward warily toward
a swale in which antelopes were usually to be found, moving up which
they came cautiously to the heavy brush that bordered the swale upon
their side. There was Tarzan, Jane, and Korak, and close beside Tarzan
the golden lion—four jungle hunters—and of the four Jad-bal-ja, the
lion, was the least accomplished. Stealthily they crawled through the
brush, scarce a leaf rustling to their passage, until at last they
looked down into the swale upon a small herd of antelope grazing
peacefully below. Closest to them was an old buck, and him Tarzan
pointed out in some mysterious manner to Jad-bal-ja.
“Fetch him,” he whispered, and the golden lion rumbled a scarce audible
acknowledgment of the command.
Stealthily he worked his way through the brush. The antelopes fed on,
unsuspecting. The distance separating the lion from his prey was over
great for a successful charge, and so Jad-bal-ja waited, hiding in the
brush, until the antelope should either graze closer to him or turn its
back toward him. No sound came from the four watching the grazing
herbivora, nor did the latter give any indication of a suspicion of the
nearness of danger. The old buck moved slowly closer to Jad-bal-ja.
Almost imperceptibly the lion was gathering for the charge. The only
noticeable movement was the twitching of his tail’s tip, and then, as
lightning from the sky, as an arrow from a bow, he shot from immobility
to tremendous speed in an instant. He was almost upon the buck before
the latter realized the proximity of danger, and then it was too late,
for scarcely had the antelope wheeled than the lion rose upon its hind
legs and seized it, while the balance of the herd broke into precipitate
flight.
“Now,” said Korak, “we shall see.”
“He will bring the antelope to me,” said Tarzan confidently.
The golden lion hesitated a moment, growling over the carcass of his
kill. Then he seized it by the back and with his head turned to one side
dragged it along the ground beside him, as he made his way slowly back
toward Tarzan. Through the brush he dragged the slain antelope until he
had dropped it at the feet of his master, where he stood, looking up at
the face of the ape-man with an expression that could not have been
construed into aught but pride in his achievement and a plea for
commendation.
Tarzan stroked his head and spoke to him in a low voice, praising him,
and then, drawing his hunting knife, he cut the jugular of the antelope
and let the blood from the carcass. Jane and Korak stood close, watching
Jad-bal-ja—what would the lion do with the smell of fresh, hot blood in
his nostrils? He sniffed at it and growled, and with bared fangs he eyed
the three wickedly. The ape-man pushed him away with his open palm and
the lion growled again angrily and snapped at him.
Quick is Numa, quick is Bara, the deer, but Tarzan of the Apes is
lightning. So swiftly did he strike, and so heavily, that Jad-bal-ja was
falling on his back almost in the very instant that he had growled at
his master. Swiftly he came to his feet again and the two stood facing
one another.
“Down!” commanded the ape-man. “Lie down, Jad-bal-ja!” His voice was low
and firm. The lion hesitated but for an instant, and then lay down as
Tarzan of the Apes had taught him to do at the word of command. Tarzan
turned and lifted the carcass of the antelope to his shoulder.
“Come,” he said to Jad-bal-ja. “Heel!” and without another glance at the
carnivore he moved off toward the horses.
“I might have known it,” said Korak, with a laugh, “and saved my hundred
pounds.”
“Of course you might have known it,” said his mother.
CHAPTER III
A MEETING OF MYSTERY
A RATHER attractive-looking, though overdressed, young woman was dining
in a second-rate chop-house in London. She was noticeable, not so much
for her fine figure and coarsely beautiful face as for the size and
appearance of her companion, a large, well-proportioned man in the
mid-twenties, with such a tremendous beard that it gave him the
appearance of hiding in ambush. He stood fully three inches over six
feet. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep, and his hips narrow. His
physique, his carriage, everything about him, suggested indubitably the
trained athlete.
The two were in close conversation, a conversation that occasionally
gave every evidence of bordering upon heated argument.
“I tell you,” said the man, “that I do not see what we need of the
others. Why should they share with us—why divide into six portions that
which you and I might have alone?”
“It takes money to carry the plan through,” she replied, “and neither
you nor I have any money. _They_ have it and they will back us with
it—me for my knowledge and you for your appearance and your strength.
They searched for you, Esteban, for two years, and, now that they have
found you, I should not care to be in your shoes if you betrayed them.
They would just as soon slit your throat as not, Esteban, if they no
more than thought they couldn’t use you, now that you have all the
details of their plan. But if you should try to take all the profit from
them—” She paused, shrugging her shoulders. “No, my dear, I love life
too well to join you in any such conspiracy as that.”
“But I tell you, Flora, we ought to get more out of it than they want to
give. You furnish all the knowledge and I take all the risk—why
shouldn’t we have more than a sixth apiece?”
“Talk to them yourself, then, Esteban,” said the girl, with a shrug,
“but if you will take my advice you will be satisfied with what you are
offered. Not only have I the information, without which they can do
nothing, but I found you into the bargain, yet I do not ask it all—I
shall be perfectly satisfied with one-sixth, and I can assure you that
if you do not muddle the thing, one-sixth of what you bring out will be
enough for any one of us for the rest of his natural life.”
The man did not seem convinced, and the young woman had a feeling that
he would bear watching. Really, she knew very little about him, and had
seen him in person only a few times since her first discovery of him
some two months before, upon the screen of a London cinema house in a
spectacular feature in which he had played the rôle of a Roman soldier
of the Pretorian Guard.
Here his heroic size and perfect physique had alone entitled him to
consideration, for his part was a minor one, and doubtless of all the
thousands who saw him upon the silver sheet Flora Hawkes was the only
one who took more than a passing interest in him, and her interest was
aroused, not by his histrionic ability, but rather because for some two
years she and her confederates had been searching for such a type as
Esteban Miranda so admirably represented. To find him in the flesh bade
fair to prove difficult of accomplishment, but after a month of
seemingly fruitless searching she finally discovered him among a score
of extra men at the studio of one of London’s lesser producing
companies. She needed no other credentials than her good looks to form
his acquaintance, and while that was ripening into intimacy she made no
mention to him of the real purpose of her association with him.
That he was a Spaniard and apparently of good family was evident to her,
and that he was unscrupulous was to be guessed by the celerity with
which he agreed to take part in the shady transaction that had been
conceived in the mind of Flora Hawkes, and the details of which had been
perfected by her and her four confederates. So, therefore, knowing that
he was unscrupulous, she was aware that every precaution must be taken
to prevent him taking advantage of the knowledge of their plan that he
must one day have in detail, the key to which she, up to the present
moment, had kept entirely to herself, not even confiding it to any one
of her four other confederates.
They sat for a moment in silence, toying with the empty glasses from
which they had been drinking. Presently she looked up to find his gaze
fixed upon her and an expression in his eyes that even a less
sophisticated woman than Flora Hawkes might readily have interpreted.
“You can make me do anything you want, Flora,” he said, “for when I am
with you I forget the gold, and think only of that other reward which
you continually deny me, but which one day I shall win.”
“Love and business do not mix well,” replied the girl. “Wait until you
have succeeded in this work, Esteban, and then we may talk of love.”
“You do not love me,” he whispered, hoarsely. “I know—I have seen—that
each of the others loves you. That is why I could hate them. And if I
thought that you loved one of them, I could cut his heart out. Sometimes
I have thought that you did—first one of them and then another. You are
too familiar with them, Flora. I have seen John Peebles squeeze your
hand when he thought no one was looking, and when you dance with Dick
Throck he holds you too close and you dance cheek to cheek. I tell you I
do not like it, Flora, and one of these days I shall forget all about
the gold and think only of you, and then something will happen and there
will not be so many to divide the ingots that I shall bring back from
Africa. And Bluber and Kraski are almost as bad; perhaps Kraski is the
worst of all, for he is a good-looking devil and I do not like the way
in which you cast sheep’s eyes at him.”
The fire of growing anger was leaping to the girl’s eyes. With an angry
gesture she silenced him.
“What business is it of yours, _Señor_ Miranda, who I choose for my
friends, or how I treat them or how they treat me? I will have you
understand that I have known these men for years, while I have known you
for but a few weeks, and if any has a right to dictate my behavior,
which, thank God, none has, it would be one of them rather than you.”
His eyes blazed angrily.
“It is as I thought!” he cried. “You love one of them.” He half rose
from the table and leaned across it toward her, menacingly. “Just let me
find out which one it is and I will cut him into pieces!”
He ran his fingers through his long, black hair until it stood up on end
like the mane of an angry lion. His eyes were blazing with a light that
sent a chill of dread through the girl’s heart. He appeared a man
temporarily bereft of reason—if he were not a maniac he most certainly
looked one, and the girl was afraid and realized that she must placate
him.
“Come, come, Esteban,” she whispered softly, “there is no need for
working yourself into a towering rage over nothing. I have not said that
I loved one of these, nor have I said that I do not love you, but I am
not used to being wooed in such fashion. Perhaps your Spanish
_señoritas_ like it, but I am an English girl and if you love me treat
me as an English lover would treat me.”
“You have not said that you loved one of these others—no, but on the
other hand you have not said that you do not love one of them—tell me,
Flora, which one of them is it that you love?”
His eyes were still blazing, and his great frame trembling with
suppressed passion.
“I do not love any of them, Esteban,” she replied, “nor, as yet, do I
love you. But I could, Esteban, that much I will tell you. I could love
you, Esteban, as I could never love another, but I shall not permit
myself to do so until after you have returned and we are free to live
where and how we like. Then, maybe—but, even so, I do not promise.”
“You had better promise,” he said, sullenly, though evidently somewhat
mollified. “You had better promise, Flora, for I care nothing for the
gold if I may not have you also.”
“Hush,” she cautioned, “here they come now, and it is about time; they
are fully a half-hour late.”
The man turned his eyes in the direction of her gaze, and the two sat
watching the approach of four men who had just entered the chop-house.
Two of them were evidently Englishmen—big, meaty fellows of the middle
class, who looked what they really were, former pugilists; the third,
Adolph Bluber, was a short, fat German, with a round, red face and a
bull neck; the other, the youngest of the four, was by far the best
looking. His smooth face, clear complexion, and large dark eyes might of
themselves have proven sufficient grounds for Miranda’s jealousy, but
supplementing these were a mop of wavy, brown hair, the figure of a
Greek god and the grace of a Russian dancer, which, in truth, was what
Carl Kraski was when he chose to be other than a rogue.
The girl greeted the four pleasantly, while the Spaniard vouchsafed them
but a single, surly nod, as they found chairs and seated themselves at
the table.
“Hale!” cried Peebles, pounding the table to attract the attention of a
waiter, “let us ’ave hale.”
The suggestion met with unanimous approval, and as they waited for their
drink they spoke casually of unimportant things; the heat, the
circumstance that had delayed them, the trivial occurrences since they
had last met; throughout which Esteban sat in sullen silence, but after
the waiter had returned and they drank to Flora, with which ceremony it
had long been their custom to signalize each gathering, they got down to
business.
“Now,” cried Peebles, pounding the table with his meaty fist, “’ere we
are, and that’s that! We ’ave everything, Flora—the plans, the money,
_Señor_ Miranda—and are jolly well ready, old dear, for your part of
it.”
“How much money have you?” asked Flora. “It is going to take a lot of
money, and there is no use starting unless you have plenty to carry on
with.”
Peebles turned to Bluber. “There,” he said, pointing a pudgy finger at
him, “is the bloomin’ treasurer. ’E can tell you ’ow much we ’ave, the
fat rascal of a Dutchman.”
Bluber smiled an oily smile and rubbed his fat palms together. “Vell,”
he said, “how much you t’ink, Miss Flora, ve should have?”
“Not less than two thousand pounds to be on the safe side,” she replied
quickly.
“_Oi! Oi!_” exclaimed Bluber. “But dot is a lot of money—two t’ousand
pounds. _Oi! Oi!_”
The girl made a gesture of disgust. “I told you in the first place that
I wouldn’t have anything to do with a bunch of cheap screws, and that
until you had enough money to carry the thing out properly I would not
give you the maps and directions, without which you cannot hope to reach
the vaults, where there is stored enough gold to buy this whole, tight,
little island if half that what I have heard them say about it is true.
You can go along and spend your own money, but you’ve got to show me
that you have at least two thousand pounds to spend before I give up the
information that will make you the richest men in the world.”
“The blighter’s got the money,” growled Throck. “Blime if I know what
he’s beefin’ about.”
“He can’t help it,” growled the Russian, “it’s a racial characteristic;
Bluber would try to jew down the marriage license clerk if he were going
to get married.”
“Oh, vell,” sighed Bluber, “for vy should we spend more money than is
necessary? If ve can do it for vone t’ousand pounds so much the better.”
“Certainly,” snapped the girl, “and if it don’t take but one thousand,
that is all that you will have to spend, but you’ve got to have the two
thousand in case of emergencies, and from what I have seen of that
country you are likely to run up against more emergencies than anything
else.
“_Oi! Oi!_” cried Bluber.
“’E’s got the money all right,” said Peebles, “now let’s get busy.”
“He may have it, but I want to see it first,” replied the girl.
“Vat you t’ink; I carry all dot money around in my pocket?” cried
Bluber.
“Can’t you take our word for it?” grumbled Throck.
“You’re a nice bunch of crooks to ask me that,” she replied, laughing in
the face of the burly ruffians. “I’ll take Carl’s word for it, though;
if he tells me that you have it, and that it is in such shape that it
can, and will, be used to pay all the necessary expenses of our
expedition, I will believe him.”
Peebles and Throck scowled angrily, and Miranda’s eyes closed to two
narrow, nasty slits, as he directed his gaze upon the Russian. Bluber,
on the contrary, was affected not at all; the more he was insulted, the
better, apparently, he liked it. Toward one who treated him with
consideration or respect he would have become arrogant, while he fawned
upon the hand that struck him. Kraski, alone, smiled a self-satisfied
smile that set the blood of the Spaniard boiling.
“Bluber has the money, Flora,” he
|
you didn't ought to call 'im so,'
she say.
"'Question is, Maria,' I says, 'in that case what did I ought to call
'im?'
"'And I can tell yer that too, Dad,' she say--Maria did. 'You didn't
ought to call 'im 'Artz Mountain roller, but ha-Hartz Mountain roller.
That's the way to call 'im,' she says--impident little 'ussy! But
there--what's in a name, as the white blackbird said when 'e sat on a
wooden milestone eating a red blackberry? Still, 'e weren't running
a live-stock emporium, I expect, when 'e ask such a question as that
'ere. There's a good deal in 'ow you call a bird, or a dawg or a
guinea-pig neither, if you want to pass 'im on to a customer in a
honest way o' trade."
I assured Mr. Punt I had not a doubt of it.
"But I shall be a-practisin' my haitches, Sir," he promised
me, as I went out with the canary seed which I had called to
purchase--"practise 'em 'ard, I shall. It's what I ain't a-got at the
present moment--'a fine ear for the haspirate.' Beeutiful expression
that, Sir, if you'll excuse me sayin' so. But I don't see no reason
as a man mightn't 'ope to acquire it, 'im practising constant and
careful--same as a pusson can learn a bullfinch to pipe ''Ome, sweet
'Ome.' That haitch is a funny letter, but it's a letter as I shall
practise. Still, haitches or no haitches," he concluded, with a
profound sigh, "I wish as I knowed 'ow I could set about coming it
over that 'ere one-legged widder lidy at Putney what 'ave the two
great hauk's eggs."
Out of the dusty twilight in the far end of the shop Mrs. Punt's eye
gleamed balefully.
* * * * *
BLIGHTY IMPRESSIONS.
THE BARBER.
I went into a tobacco-shop, tendered a pound note and asked for a
packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. With much regret and a
smiling face, she informed me she had the goods but no change.
What a dilemma! A shop with cigarettes and matches, but I couldn't
spare a pound note for them.
An inspiration!--I would go into the hairdressing establishment behind
the shop, have a shave--which I really didn't need--obtain change and
make my purchase. Besides, with so many barbers closed owing to the
strike, it was an opportunity.
This is what happened.
"Good morning, Sir. Your turn next but six."
A long, long interval.
"Shave, Sir? Lovely weather we're having. Razor all right, Sir?"
I said as little as possible; it is the only safe thing.
"Face massage, Sir?"
"No, thanks," I mumbled.
"Wonderful thing for the face, Sir; make a new man of you. Invigorates
the circulation, improves the complexion--"
"Oh, all right," I gasped.
And then for about twenty minutes snatches of conversation floated to
me through bundles of wet towels. My head was having a Turkish bath.
My face was covered with ointments and creams. Currents of electricity
played about my brow.
"Just trim your hair, Sir?"
I swear I said "No," but before I knew what was happening the scissors
were running merrily over my head.
"Singeing, Sir?"
"Er--no. I--"
"Finest thing in the world, Sir. It's a treat to see hair like this.
Just a bit 'endy,' but singeing will soon put that right."
Even had I been blind I should have discovered that I was undergoing
the process.
"What would you like for the shampoo, Sir? Eau de Quinine--Violet--"
"I don't think--"
My feeble protest was cut short.
"I always recommend Violet," he said, sprinkling my head profusely.
More rubbing, more towels, more electricity and finally a brush and
comb.
"I've a hair-lotion here, Sir--"
"No, thank you."
I meant it.
He helped me on with my coat, brushed off a deal of imaginary dust,
said something about skin softeners and bath requisites, but I'd had
enough for one morning, and I was yearning to get those cigarettes and
have a smoke.
I tendered my pound note.
He took it, and with his best smile said--
"Another sixpence, Sir, please."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MOTHER, I _HAVE_ BEEN GOOD TO-DAY--SO PATIENT WITH
NURSE."]
* * * * *
BLIMP!
There are many things Dora kept dark
That she's now letting into the light,
And to-day an astounding aerial barque
Has suddenly sailed into sight;
But its past makes no sympathies burn,
And its future leaves interest limp,
Compared with the rapture I feel when I learn
That its name is the Blimp.
Who gave it its title, and why?
Was it old EDWARD LEAR from the grave?
Since Jumblies in Blimps would be certain to fly
When for air they abandon the wave.
Was it dear LEWIS CARROLL, perhaps
Sent his phantom to christen the barque,
Since a Blimp is the obvious vessel for chaps
When hunting a snark?
And to-day, in the first-fruits of joy,
I scarcely believe it is true
That Blimp is a word we shall one day employ
As lightly as now Bakerloo;
And my reason refuses to jump
To the fact that a man, not an imp,
Can flash through the other and land with a bump
From a trip in a Blimp.
* * * * *
"It needs no very profound knowledge of the politics of
South-Western Europe to surmise that neither Rumania nor
Greece would lend military assistance of this kind without
being promised something in return.--_Manchester Guardian_.
But a rather more profound knowledge of the geography might be useful.
* * * * *
THE OLD INVINCIBLE.
It is late in the day to draw attention to Mr. Punch as a prophet.
Everyone knows that his eyes have always discerned the farthest
horizon. None the less it is pleasant now and again to succumb to the
temptation of saying "I told you so," and especially when it is the
finger of a friendly reader that points the way to the Sage's triumph.
Were we in the habit of quoting from past numbers, as many of our
contemporaries do, we should print the following paragraph from the
issue of September 2nd, 1871:--
"A REAL DANGER.
"'According to _Le Havre_, about forty Prussian officers in
mufti leave Dieppe every morning for England, their object
being to visit the military establishments of Great Britain.'
"Here at last is an actual invasion! Prussian officers landing on
our defenceless shores, on the transparently flimsy pretext of making
themselves acquainted with our military establishments, at the rate
(excluding Sundays) of 240 a week, or in this present September, of
1,080 a month, or, amazing and terrifying total, of 12,520 a year! We
commend this startling announcement to the attention of the Cabinet
(Parliament, unfortunately, is not sitting), the Commander-in-Chief,
the War Office, the Commanders of all Volunteer Corps, the Author of
'The Battle of Dorking,' _Sergeant Blower_, and _Cheeks the Marine_."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tommy_ (_homeward bound, and determined not to
disappoint_). "WHY, MISSY, THREE DAYS BEFORE THE ARMISTICE THE AIR WAS
THAT THICK WITH AEROPLANES THE BIRDS HAD TO GET DOWN AND WALK."]
* * * * *
THE SAUSAGE ROLL.
THE VERY LATEST DANCE.
[To any English composer who has not yet contributed to the
wave of music and dance which is now sweeping the country the
writer offers the following as the basis of an entirely new
and original dance, strictly national in character and full
of that quaint old rustic, not to say aboriginal, grace which
distinguishes modern dance-music.]
Oh say, won't you stay down-away at the Sausage Farm?
It's a scream, it wouldn't seem you could dream such perfect ch-e-arm;
You can bet that Jazz'll be beat to a frazzle,
And the old Fox Trot'll be a pale green mottle,
When they gauge what's the rage of the age at the Sausage Farm.
(CRASH! BANG! TINKLE!)
_Come along, you'll be wrong if you miss that Sausage Roll._
_Every pig does the jig, for he's in this heart and so-ul:_
_See the old sow shout, "What about my litter?"_
_But she dries those tears when she hears, poor crittur,_
_That they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll._
(TZING! BOOM! The lights go out.)
Oh, haste, life's a waste till you're based at the Sausage Farm,
Where the dog and the hog and the frog go arm-in-arm;
And the farm-yard bosses can all do Sosses;
The old man's crazy, and his poor Aunt Maisie,
Over this hit of bliss (have a kiss) at Sausage Farm.
(CLATTER! BUMP! The walls begin to crack.)
_Come a-quick, you'll be sick if you miss that Sausage Roll,_
_For the cow does it now and the cat we can't contro-ol,_
_And I heard as she purred, "Oh, I've found my kittens,_
_You could bet they'd get with the best-born Britons,_
_For they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll."_
(CRASH! BANG! The roof falls in.)
A.P.H.
* * * * *
A TALL ORDER.
"SHANGHAI MUNICIPAL COUNCIL POLICE FORCE.--Police recruits are
now required. Applicants must be unmarried, of good physique,
with sound teeth, about 20 to 25 years of age, not less than
57 ft. 10 in. in height."--_Weekly Paper_.
* * * * *
"Lloyd's agent at Chriseiansund telegraphs that
wreckage marked 'Wilson Line' drifted ashore near
Switzerland."--_Provincial Paper_.
Following the WILSON line the seas appear to be already behaving with
unusual freedom.
* * * * *
"'George Eliot' (Mary Ann Evans), the gifted Warwickshire
authoress, who wrote 'Adam Bede' and several other popular
works."--_Daily Telegraph_.
We have noticed the name from time to time, and we are glad to know
who "GEORGE ELIOT" was.
* * * * *
From a "multiple shop" catalogue:--
"SMOKING ROOM.--The decorations are well worth a special note,
and are quite unique of their kind, being without a match
anywhere."
Surely not "unique." We know a lot of smoking-rooms equally matchless.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FIRST GERMAN VICTORY.
[The German Elections have resulted in a signal defeat for the
Extremists.]]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Hostess_ (_to small guest, who is casting lingering
glances at the cakes_). "I DON'T THINK YOU CAN EAT ANY MORE OF THOSE
CAKES, CAN YOU, JOHN?"
_John_. "NO, I DON'T THINK I CAN. BUT MAY I STROKE THEM?"]
* * * * *
A NEW SCHOOL.
An evening newspaper informs its readers that arrangements are being
made for "a school for M.P.'s"--"a weekly meeting of Unionist M.P.'s
new to Parliamentary life, who will receive instruction in the forms
of the House. They will be taught how to address the SPEAKER, how to
frame a question," and so forth.
This intelligence is of particular interest in that it conveys an
admission that our new M.P.'s do not know everything.
Interviewed by a correspondent, Mr. Raleigh Quawe, the able young
educationist, who, it is understood, is watching the experiment with
some concern, said, "While I do not wish to seem to be giving away
too much to the gloom of youth, I cannot help feeling that the school
may be run on wrong lines unless the greatest care is exercised.
Will the opportunity be taken for testing methods which have been so
disastrously absent hitherto from our public school system? I would
urge those in authority to put away the old formulæ, and to ensure
the introduction of a right spirit in the school by the appointment of
young masters endowed with vision and enthusiasm.
"I hope that the worship of sport will not be encouraged. I was never
one who believed that our battles have been won on the playing-fields
of Westminster. I am confident that I am not alone in the hope that
the old games at Westminster will be abandoned.
"It is most important that there should be no suppression of the
emotional nature. Rob politics of emotion and the newspapers are not
worth reading; and it must not be forgotten that what Westminster does
to-day is read of by the British Empire to-morrow. No effort should be
spared to awaken the artistic sense of the pupils. If the pictures and
sculptures in and about the corridors of the Houses of Parliament are
not enough, let others be prepared. No expense should be spared. For
my part I see no reason why a little music should not be introduced
occasionally.
"Freedom of opinion should also be encouraged. One fault of our
educational system has been its tendency to produce mass-thinking.
This will never do among our Unionist Members of Parliament. Yes, I
would even advocate that some of the seniors should be allowed to
read _The Herald_ if they wished to do so, and I question whether _The
Nation_ would do any of them any harm."
* * * * *
COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.
Notice in a watchmaker's window:--
"No repairs except to watches recently purchased."
Advertisement in Provincial Paper:--
"WALK IN,
But you will be happier when you go out."
* * * * *
"An extraordinary plague of rats prevails on the Sheffield
Corporation rubbish tips at Killamarsh. The rodents have
constructed beaten tracks eight inches wide, extending to
corn stacks on a local farm, where they have wrought munch
havoc."--_Local Paper_.
Quite the right epithet, we feel sure.
* * * * *
"We make a speciality of gorillas and chimpanzees. They are
wonderfully intelligent and can be trained right up to the
human standard in all except speech. One of our directors, Mr.
----, and his wife are both able to only be tamed to live in
captivity."--_Irish Paper_.
A perusal of the above paragraph is said to have stimulated Mr. ----'s
gift of speech in a startling degree.
* * * * *
[Illustration: IF THE POETS STRUCK WOULD THE MILITARY BE CALLED IN TO
DO THEIR WORK?]
* * * * *
FATHER THAMES TALKS.
One day last week, it might be Wed-
nesday, or even Friday,
A day not yet entirely dead,
A shortly-doomed-to-die day,
The Naiad who lay stretched in dream
Awoke and gave a shiver--
The Naiad who has charge of stream
And rivulet and river.
I had intended to write the whole of this article in verse, of which
the above is a shocking sample, but, on the whole, I think I will go
on in prose. When you have committed yourself to double rhymes, prose
is the easier medium. In verse it is more difficult to stick to your
subject, and as the subject in this case is a very important one and
deserves to be stuck to, I shall do the rest in prose.
Anyhow, the fact is that I have read a paragraph in one of the papers
about a proposed revival of rowing. Rowing, like other sports, has,
it seems, lain dormant for the past four years and a half. From the
moment in 1914 when war was declared it suffered a land-change;
shorts and zephyr and blazer and sweater were abandoned at once, and,
for the oarsman as for everybody else, khaki became the only wear.
Already trained by long discipline to obey, our oarsmen trooped to
the colours, and wherever hard fighting was to be done their shining
names are to be found on the muster-roll of fame. Some will return to
us, but for others there waited the _eternum exitium cymbæ_--a very
different craft from those to which they were accustomed, but they
accepted it with pride and without a murmur.
Bearing these things in mind, I went to Henley last week to interview
Father Thames. I found the veteran totally unchanged in his quarters
on the Temple Island, and immediately began the interview.
"Dull?" he said. "I believe you, my boy. But they tell me there's talk
of reviving the regatta. You tell them with my compliments not to be
in too great a hurry about it. Think of what Henley meant to the lads
who rowed. They hadn't learnt their skill in a day--no, nor in as many
days as go to a year."
"Do you then," I said, "consider the regatta only from the oarsman's
point of view?"
"Really," said the old gentleman, "there's no other. Not but what," he
added with a chuckle, "it gave them more pleasure to row their races
with lots of pretty faces to look on. Lor' bless you, I don't object
to 'em. It's the prettiest scene in the world when the sun shines as
it sometimes does. And that's enough talking for one afternoon." With
that he plunged, and nothing I did could bring him to the surface
again.
* * * * *
EARLY ONE MORNING.
Bound South from Japan to the port of Hong Kong
We fell in with a little junk blowing along;
We met her all bright at the breaking of day,
And we gave her good-morning and passed on our way.
She had stretched her red sails like the wings of a bat,
And light, like a gull, on the water she sat;
She had two big bright eyes for to keep a look-out;
On her stern there were dragons cavorting about.
And Mrs. Ah Fit by the kitchen did sit
Preparing some breakfast for Mr. Ah Fit,
The gentleman who, as we saw when we neared her,
By waggling the tickle-stick skilfully, steered her.
The little Fit men and the little Fit maids
Were playing at tig round the brass carronades,
And with all the delight of a juvenile Briton
The littlest Ah Fitlet was plucking the kitten.
With a "How do you do, Sir?" and "Hip, hip, hooray!"
'Twas so they blew by at the breaking of day.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Comedian_ (_who has been instructed to modify his
humour to suit the taste of a select audience at a charity performance
at the local theatre_). "THERE YOU ARE! NOT A LAUGH! THIS IS WOT COMES
OF YOUR 'FUNNY WITHOUT BEIN' VULGAR'!"]
* * * * *
OUR BIVVIE.
"Not a bad possie," said George, looking round the village. "Let's
rustle a bivvie before the crowd comes along."
All George's performances in the art of rustling bivvies rank as star.
He permits no coarse and obvious gathering of an expectant horde about
the opening door; no slacking of straps and bootlaces until the final
"I will" is said on either side. He debouches in extended order on
the doomed house; gets his range and has the barrage well in hand (the
quantity and quality of Madame's gesticulations furnish the key to
this) before Colin drifts off the horizon and shows a peaked face with
haunting eyes over George's shoulder. Colin does not speak. That is
not his _métier_. He is the star shell illuminating the position; and
usually in about six minutes' time it is safe for John to put in an
appearance with the kit.
This is the recognised procedure, and it has served us indifferently
well up and down three years of war and a good deal of France and
Flanders. Therefore John was not to blame when, after waiting the
scheduled six minutes, he arrived to find the other two still in
the thick of it. Either Colin was not haunting up to form (which was
likely, as he had been over-fed lately) or George's French (which was
never made in the place where they make marriages) had scandalised
Madame.
She stood in the door like some historical personage, probably the
Sphinx, and repeated a guttural kind of incantation while George
stretched his ears until they stood out more than usual in a struggle
to understand.
"Rotten patois some of these people speak," he said. "I believe she
has a room, though something's biting her. Likely enough Fritz went
off with all her furniture; but I've already explained twenty times
that that doesn't matter. _Écoutez, Madame._ We only want a room.
_Chambre-à-coucher._ We can furnish it. We have three beds. _Trois
lits._ _Trois_ stretcher-beds sent over from _Angleterre_. _À la
gare._ We've just seen them. _Trois lits nous avons._ Three beds."
"Beds!" Madame pounced on the word. "_C'est cela!_ No beds,
_Monsieur_. _Je n'en ai pas._"
"Ah, now we know where we are." George looked round triumphantly.
"_Écoutez, Madame._ We don't want beds. _Nous les desirons jamais._
We have them. _Trois lits._ We don't want them. We have beds.
_Comprenez?_"
"No beds," explained Madame firmly.
"But I've just told you--" George plunged again into the maelstrom,
and a pretty girl appeared from the firelit room behind to stir him
to his highest flights of eloquence. A smell of savoury cooking
came also, and out in the street night shut down dark and chill and
sinister, as it does in all the best novels. John let part of the
kit down on the door-sill. It was his way of explaining that at the
present moment there was a deeper, more intimate call than the Call of
the Wild. Colin moved up a step and turned the haunting-stop full on.
George redoubled his efforts, making them very clear indeed. We could
understand almost every word he said.
Then Madame answered, and we could understand that too.
"No beds," she said.
The pretty girl smiled in a troubled way and murmured something in a
soft voice.
"She says they haven't got any beds in the rooms. Fritz took them
all," interpreted George. "_Écoutez, Mademoiselle_. We have beds.
_Trois lits. Nous les avons. Tous les trois. Oui. À la gare.
Absolument_."
Mademoiselle looked at Madame with a kink of her pretty brows. Madame
rose like a balloon to the need.
"No beds," she said very distinctly, with a rounding of eyes and
mouth. "No beds, Messieurs. No-o-o--_beds_."
Before George could recover John interfered. He makes a hobby of
cutting Gordian knots.
"Oh, what's the earthly use of telling 'em we have beds when they
can see for themselves that we haven't? They just think we can't
understand. Let's go up and take the rooms if they're decent. Then
we'll get the stretchers and put 'em up. That's the only sort of
argument we can handle."
Manfully George went to work again. And reluctant, and yet obviously
fascinated by his French, like a bird by a snake, Mademoiselle led
up the narrow stairs and into a sizeable room, clean as a pin and as
naked. On the threshold Madame washed her hands of hope.
"_Regardez!_ No beds. _C'est affreux!_"
George began again. He had courage. Whatever else Nature and luck
denied him there was no question of that. For a little it looked as
though he were in sight of the goal. Then Mademoiselle explained. They
were _désolées_, but the _sales Boches_ had stolen all the beds, and
Madame would not let the bare rooms to _Messieurs les Anglais_. It
would not be _convenable_ when they had no beds.
"No beds!" Madame appealed to the skylight as witness, and we looked
at each other. It was getting late and the others would have rustled
all the best bivvies by now. John had another brain-wave.
"Let's pantomime it. They always understand pantomime. There's no use
_saying_ we've got beds--not when George has to say it. We'll show
them."
Earnestly we pantomimed stretcher beds--our own stretcher beds--and
reposeful slumber thereon. "_Mon Dieu!_" cried Mademoiselle,
retreating in haste. "No beds," repeated Madame, unconvinced and
unafraid.
"She means that she doesn't want to have us," said John in cold
despair.
"She'd be a fool if she did now," answered Colin grimly. "Let's get
out of this."
And then John had a third brain-wave. He ordered George on guard, and
descended with Colin in search of the concrete proof of our sanity.
And Madame's voice, faint yet pursuing, followed us down.
"No beds," it said.
In ten minutes we were back triumphant with the three stretchers. It
was a full six months since we had written to England for them, and
they had come at last. Visions of rest went upstairs with us, and
under the big eyes of Madame and Mademoiselle and several more Madames
who had collected as unobtrusively as a silk hat collects dust
we slashed at the coverings, ripped them off and disclosed--three
deck-chairs.
We did not attempt to meet the situation. We left it to the devil--or
Madame. And she, with the lofty serenity of one who through long
and grievous misunderstanding has won home at last, was completely
adequate.
"No beds," she said.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Grieved Wife_. "OH, SIMON, ALL OVER YOUR NOO
CONTROLLED TROUSERS."]
* * * * *
"ADOPTION.--Fine healthy boy, 3½ years; entire surrender
to good home. reception. 5 bedrooms; £1,100."--_Provincial
Paper_.
What an exacting young rascal!
* * * * *
"Liebknecht was the son of a father who opposed tyranny in
earlier days, who sounded the toxin for liberty."--_Express
and Star_ (_Wolverhampton_).
But, to do old LIEBKNECHT justice, it was the son, not the father, who
spelt it that way.
* * * * *
THE WAR-DOG'S PARTY.
(_CONTINUED._)
I expected, of course, when I declared the resolution, "Dogs not
Doormats," open for general discussion that there would be some pretty
plain barking, but nothing calling for the intervention of the Chair.
Britain's dogs are sound at heart, even if they do talk a bit wildly
about the Tyranny of Man and Rabbitism and Abolishing the Biscuiteer.
I don't agree with a lot of it myself--we Airedales have always been
conservatively inclined; but I am bound to say that three years in the
Army open one's eyes to a lot of things.
Nothing of a really seditious character was said until the Borzoi
commenced to address the meeting. I had always disliked the fellow
and half suspected him of being an Anarchist or the president of some
brotherhood or other. (It's funny how these rascals, whose one idea
is to get something which belongs to somebody else without working
for it, always call themselves a brotherhood.) But those Russian dogs
have such a shifty slinking way with them that you can't always tell
what they are driving at. This Borzoi chap had tried once or twice to
interest me in what he called the Community of Bones doctrine, but
I soon found out that his master was a conscientious objector and a
vegetarian and that the doctrine really meant that he would do the
communing and I would provide the bones.
The rogue began with some fulsome ingratiating remarks about how
pleased he was to see so many fine representatives of the canine
race prepared to maintain intact their sovereign doghood whatever
the sacrifice might entail. This brought loud applause from the young
hotheads; but I noticed traces of disgust along the backs of the older
dogs. The time had passed, he continued, for speeches and resolutions
and votes of censure. Dogs must act if Man, the enemy, was to be
finally crushed. I intervened at this point and told the Borzoi he
must moderate his language, upon which he began to bluster, shouting
that he would not be put down by an arrogant hireling of effete
Militarism. One learns to practise self-control in the trenches, so
I was able to repress an inclination to assert my authority then and
there. It was no use striking at man himself, he went on, for he
had guns and whips and stones at his command. We must strike at him
through his children.
Cries of dissent greeted this statement, and I really think the matter
would have ended then and there only it so happened that none of those
present were personally interested in children, except old Betty the
bulldog, who belongs to four little girls who treat her sovereign
doghood in a most disrespectful way. But old Betty had gone to sleep,
and, anyway, she is rather deaf and has no teeth, so it's likely she
would have confined herself to a formal snuffle of protest. "Yes,"
shouted the Borzoi, now thoroughly worked up, "let every dog take a
solemn oath to bite every child on every possible occasion--at least
when no one is looking--and Man, the oppressor, will soon come begging
for mercy and make peace with us on our own terms. No false loyalty
or ridiculous sense of chivalry must withhold us," he continued. "The
baby in the pram to-day is the man with the whip of to-morrow and must
be bitten with all the righteous fury of outraged doghood." Cries of
"Shame!" greeted this remark. I decided that it was time to interpose.
With all the severity at my command I bade the wretch be silent.
"Fellow dogs," I said, "it is clear that we must choose here and now,
once and for all, between Britishism and Bolshevism. Tails up those
who wish to remain British!" And of course every tail went up. "Tails
up, the Bolshevists!" But the Borzoi's was down beyond recall and
shivering between his legs. "That being your decision, ladies and
gentlemen," I continued, "the meeting will constitute itself a
Committee of Safety. Remarks have been passed about your Chairman
and the canine forces of His Majesty that cannot be allowed to go
unchallenged. All I ask is plenty of room and no favour."
All this time the Borzoi had been edging towards the door, and I
really think he would have tried to make a dash for it, only at the
last minute he caught the eye of the Irish wolfhound. It's no good
running away from a dog like that, so Bolshy decided to stay and face
the music. Well, as I said before, we war dogs are supposed to be as
modest as we are brave, so I will confine myself to saying that down
our way Bolshevism hasn't a leg to stand on. Of course Master, when
he saw my ear, pretended to be angry, but he knows a war dog doesn't
fight except for his country, and when the Borzoi's owner came round
next day to complain Master told him he was a miserable Pacifist and
had no _locus standi_. I told Master afterwards that the Borzoi had no
_loci standi_ either, because I'd jolly well nearly chewed them off;
and he laughed and gave me a whole cutlet with a lot of delicious meat
on it, saying he wasn't hungry himself.
Of course we dogs met again and adopted the rest of our platform; and
I don't mind saying I kept a pretty tight grip on the proceedings.
In fact, several resolutions, such as those dealing with "Municipal
Dog's-meat," "Rabbits in Regent's Park," "The Prosecution of
Untruthful Parlourmaids," "Shorter Fur and Longer Legs," were carried
without discussion. Naturally the meetings concluded with a vote of
thanks to the Chair, to which I replied (they tell me) felicitously.
That is how the War Dogs' Party came into being; and to-morrow I shall
tell that little terrier fellow from No. 10, Downing Street, that as
long as his master remains faithful to the Dog-in-the-Street the War
Dogs' Party will remain faithful to him.
ALGOL.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "OO LUMME! THAT MUST BE THE BLOKE WOT WON THE WAR!"]
* * * * *
"'The little lass, and what worlds away,' one says to oneself
on coming out of Mr. Rosing's recital."--_"Times'" Musical
Critic_.
It's the worst of music that it makes one so love-sick and
sentimental.
* * * * *
AN EXPENSIVE AMUSEMENT.
"As," says one of Mr. Punch's many and very welcome correspondents,
"you will probably be writing for the benefit of your readers a short
handbook on how to be demobilised, I enclose for your guidance my
solicitor's bill. He was engaged from November 12th until I returned
home on leave on December 30th and took a hand in the game myself.
The chief work was tracing the various Government Departments to their
hidden lairs in which they indulge in the pleasing habit of exchanging
minutes.
"Some day perhaps demobilisation will reach me. The sooner the better,
for I can never settle this account on my Army pay."
So much for the preamble. Here, with the alteration only of certain
names, is the document itself. Mr. Jones, it should be mentioned, is a
member of the firm to which the Officer in question (whom we will call
Mr. Lute) wishes to return:--
1918. £ s. d.
Nov. 12. Attending Mr. Jones on calling on
the telephone as to Mr. Lute and
advising him to make an application 6 8
" 27. Attending Demobilisation Office,
Whitehall Gardens, when the place
was too crowded to be seen to-day.
Engaged nearly two hours. 13 4
Writing Mr. Lute I was putting
through application. 3 6
" 28. Attending New Bridge Street
|
likewise maintains that, in the wild mountain
regions of India, human couples have been discovered living alone, and
who, ape-like, fled to the trees as soon as they were met; but there is
no further knowledge on the subject. If verified, these claims would
only confirm the previous superstition and hypothesis concerning the
development of the human race. The probability is that, wherever human
beings sprang up, there were, at first, single couples. Certain it is,
however, that so soon as a larger number of beings existed, descended
from a common parent stock, they held together in hordes in order that,
by their joint efforts, they might, first of all, gain their still very
primitive conditions of life and support, as well as to protect
themselves against their common enemies, wild animals. Growing numbers
and increased difficulties in securing subsistence, which originally
consisted in roots, berries and fruit, first led to the splitting up or
segmentation of the hordes, and to the search for new habitats.
This almost animal-like state, of which we have no further credible
antiquarian proofs, undoubtedly once existed, judging from all that we
have learned concerning the several grades of civilization of wild
peoples still living, or known to have lived within historic times. Man
did not, upon the call of a Creator, step ready-made into existence as a
higher product of civilization. It was otherwise. He has had to pass
through the most varied stages in an endlessly long and slow process of
development. Only via ebbing and flowing periods of civilization, and in
constant differentiation with his fellows in all parts of the world, and
in all zones, did he gradually climb up to his present height.
Indeed, while in one section of the earth's surface great peoples and
nations belong to the most advanced stages of civilization, other
peoples are found in different sections standing on the greatest variety
of gradations in development. They thus present to us a picture of our
own past history; and they point to the road which mankind traversed in
the course of its development. If but certain common and generally
accepted data are established, that may serve everywhere as sign-posts
to guide investigation, a mass of facts will follow, throwing a wholly
new light upon the relations of man in the past and the present. A
number of social phenomena--unintelligible to us to-day, and attacked by
superficial judges as nonsensical, not infrequently even as
"immoral"--will become clear and natural. A material lifting of the
veil, formerly spread over the history of the development of our race,
has been effected through the investigations made, since Bachofen, by a
considerable number of scientists, like Tylor, MacLennan, Lubbock and
others. Prominently among the men who joined these was Morgan, with his
fundamental work, that Frederick Engels further substantiated and
supplemented with a series of historical facts, economic and political
in their nature, and that, more recently, has been partly confirmed and
partly rectified by Cunow.[1]
By means of these expositions--especially as clearly and lucidly
presented by Frederick Engels, in his support of Morgan's excellent and
fundamental work,--a mass of light is shed upon hitherto unintelligible,
partly seemingly contradictory phenomena in the life of the races and
tribes of both high and low degree of culture. Only now do we gain an
insight into the structure that human society raised in the course of
time. According thereto, our former views of marriage, the family, the
community, the State, rested upon notions that were wholly false; so
false that they turn out to be no better than a fancy-picture, wholly
devoid of foundation in fact.
All that is said and proved about marriage, the family, the community
and the State holds good especially with regard to woman, who, in the
various periods of development did likewise fill a place, that differs
materially from the "eternal," imputed to her.
Morgan, whom Engels agrees with in this, divides the history of mankind
into three main epochs:--savagery, barbarism and civilization. Each of
the two first ones he again divides into an under, a middle and an upper
period, each distinguishing itself from the other by certain innovations
and improvements, predicated in each instance upon the control over
subsistence. Morgan, accordingly, exactly in the sense of the
materialist conception of history, as established by Karl Marx and
Frederick Engels,--perceives the leading characteristics in the
development of society to be the changes that, in given epochs, the
conditions of life are molded into; and he perceives the changes to be
due to the progress made in the process of production, that is to say,
in the procurement of subsistence. Summed up in a few words, the lower
period of savagery constitutes the infancy of the human race, during
which the race, partly living in trees, is mainly nourished by fruits
and roots, and during which articulate language takes its inception. The
middle period of savagery commences with the acquisition of a fish
subsistence, and the use of fire. The construction of weapons begins; at
first the club and spear, fashioned out of wood and stone. Thereby also
begins the chase, and probably also war with contiguous hordes for the
sources of food, for domiciles and hunting grounds. At this stage
appears also cannibalism, still practiced to-day by some tribes and
peoples of Africa, Australia and Polynesia. The upper period of savagery
is characterized by the perfection of weapons to the point of the bow
and arrow; finger weaving, the making of baskets out of filaments of
bark, the fashioning of sharpened stone tools have here their start, and
thereby begins also the preparation of wood for the building of boats
and huts. The form of life has accordingly, become many-sided. The
existing tools and implements, needed for the control of a plentiful
food supply, make possible the subsistance of larger communities.
The lower period of barbarism Morgan starts with the invention of the
art of pottery. The taming and domestication of animals, and, along with
that, the production of meat and milk, and the preparation of hides,
horns and hair for various purposes of use, have here their start. Hand
in hand therewith begins the cultivation of plants,--in the West of
maize, in the East of almost all known cereals, maize excepted. The
middle period of barbarism shows us, in the East, the ever more
extensive domestication of animals; in the West, the cultivation of
maize and plants by irrigation. Here also begins the use of adobe-bricks
and of stone for house-building. The domestication of animals promotes
the rearing of herds, and leads to the pastoral life. The necessity of
larger quantities of food for men and beasts leads to field agriculture.
Along therewith, the people begin to be localized; food increases in
quantity and diversity, and gradually cannibalism disappears.
The upper period of barbarism begins finally with the smelting of iron
ore, and the discovery of the phonetic alphabet. The iron plow-share is
invented, making possible agriculture on a larger scale; the iron axe
and spade are brought into requisition, making easy the clearing of the
forests. With the preparation of iron, a number of fields are opened to
activity, imparting to life a new form. Iron utensils help the building
of houses, vessels and weapons; with the preparation of metals arises
skilled handwork, a more perfect knowledge of weapons, and the building
of walled cities. Architecture, as an art, then rises; mythology, poetry
and history find support and expansion in the discovery of the phonetic
alphabet.
The Orient and the countries bordering on the Mediterranean,
particularly Egypt, Greece and Italy, are those in which the last
sketched stage of life principally unfolded; and it laid the foundation
for the social transformation that in the course of time exercised a
determining influence on the social development of Europe and of the
whole earth.
As a matter of course, the social development of the human race through
the periods of savagery and barbarism had also its peculiar sexual and
social relations, differing materially from those of later days.
Bachofen and Morgan have traced these relations by means of thorough
investigations. Bachofen, by studying closely all ancient and modern
writings, so as to arrive at the nature of phenomena that appear
singular to us in mythology, folk-lore and historic tradition, and that,
nevertheless, seem to be re-echoed in incidents and events of later
days, occasionally even of our own. Morgan, by spending decades of his
life among the Iroquois Indians, located in the State of New York, and
thereby making observations, through which he gained new and unexpected
insight into the system of life, the family and the relationships of the
said Indian tribe, and, based upon which, observations made elsewhere,
first received their correct interpretation and explanation.
Both of them, Bachofen and Morgan, discovered, each along his own line
of research, the latter, however, far more clearly than the former, that
the relations of the sexes during primitive times of human development
were substantially different from the relations existing in historic
days, and among the modern civilized peoples. Especially did Morgan
discover--thanks to his many years' sojourn among the Iroquois of North
America, and grounded upon comparative studies, which he was moved to by
that which he there observed,--that all the existing races, that are
still materially backward, possess systems of family and consanguinity
that are totally different from ours, but must be similar to those once
prevalent among all races during the previous stages of civilization.
Morgan found, at the time that he lived among the Iroquois, that among
them there existed a system of monogamy, easily dissolvable by both
parties, and which he designated as the "pairing family." He also found
that the terms for the degrees of consanguinity--father, mother, son,
daughter, brother, sister--although, according to our conception, there
can be no doubt as to their application, were there, nevertheless,
applied in quite different sense. The Iroquois calls not only his own
children "sons" and "daughters," but also the children of all his
brothers; and their children call him "father." Conversely, the female
Iroquois calls not only her own children "sons" and "daughters," but all
those of her sisters, and likewise do their children call her "mother."
On the other hand, she calls the children of her brothers "nephews" and
"nieces," and these call her "aunt." The children of brothers call one
another "brothers" and "sisters;" likewise the children of sisters.
Finally, the children of a woman and those of her brother call one
another "cousins." Accordingly, the singular spectacle is seen of the
terms of relationship going, not as in our sense, by the degree of
consanguinity, but by the sex of the relative.
This system of relationship is in full force, not only among all the
American Indians, as well as among the aborigines of India, the tribes
of Dekan and the Gaura tribes of Hindostan, but, according to the
investigations that have taken place since Bachofen, similar conditions
must have existed everywhere in primitive times, as they still exist
to-day among many peoples of Upper and Further Asia, Africa and
Australia. When, in connection with these investigations and established
facts, the investigation will be everywhere taken up on the sex and
family relations of wild and barbarous nations still living, then will
the fact transpire that, what Bachofen still confusedly found among
numerous peoples of antiquity, and rather surmised than otherwise; what
Morgan found among the Iroquois; what Cunow found among the
Austral-Negros, are but social and sexual formations, that constitute
the _groundwork of human development for all the peoples of the earth_.
The investigations of Morgan bring, moreover, other interesting facts to
light. Although the "pairing family" of the Iroquois starts in
insolvable contradiction with the terms of consanguinity in use among
them, it turns out that, as late as the first half of the 19th Century,
there existed on the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii) a family-form that
actually tallied with that which, among the Iroquois, existed in name
only. But the system of consanguinity, in force in Hawaii, failed, in
turn, to tally with the family-form actually in existence there. It
referred to an older family-form, one still more primitive, but no
longer extant. There, all the children of brothers and sisters, without
exception, were "brothers" and "sisters." Accordingly, they were not
considered the common children of their mothers and of the sisters of
these, or of their fathers and of the brothers of these, but of all the
brothers and sisters of their parents, without distinction. The Hawaiian
system of consanguinity corresponded, accordingly, with a stage of
development that was lower than the family-form still actually in
existence. Hence transpires the curious fact that, in Hawaii, as with
the Indians of North America, two distinct systems of consanguinity are,
or rather, at a time, were in vogue, which no longer tallied with actual
conditions, but were both overtaken by a higher state. On this head
Morgan says: "The family represents an active principle. It is never
stationary, but advances from a lower to a higher form as society
advances from a lower to a higher condition, and finally passes out of
one form into another of higher grade. Systems of consanguinity, on the
contrary, are passive; recording the progress made by the family at long
intervals apart, and only changing radically when the family has
radically changed."
The theory,--even to-day generally considered conclusive, and which is
stubbornly upheld as irrefutable by the representatives of the _status
quo_--to the effect that the existing family-form has existed since time
immemorial, and, lest the whole social fabric be put in jeopardy, must
continue to exist forever, turned out, accordingly, after these
discoveries of the investigators, to be wholly false and untenable. The
form, under which the relations of the sexes appear and the situation of
the family is raised, depends rather upon the social conditions, upon
the manner in which man controls his subsistence. The form changes with
the changed degree of culture at each given period.
The study of primitive history leaves now no room for doubt that, at the
lowest grades of human development, the relation of the sexes is totally
different from that of latter times, and that a state of things resulted
therefrom, which, looked at with modern eyes, appears as monstrous, and
as a sink of immorality. Nevertheless, as each social stage of human
development has its own conditions of production, so likewise has each
its own code of morals, which is but the _reflection of the social
condition_. That is moral which is usage; and that, in turn, is usage
which corresponds with the innermost being, i. e., the needs of a given
period.
Morgan reaches the conclusion that, at the lower period of savagery,
there was sexual intercourse between the several grades or generations,
every woman belonging to every man, and every man to every woman,--in
other words, promiscuity. All men live in polygamy and all women in
polyandry. There is a general community of women and of men, but also a
community of children, Strábo reports (sixty-six years before our
reckoning) that, among the Arabians, brothers cohabited with sisters and
with their own mother. On any route other than that of incest, the
increase of population is nowhere possible, if, as alleged in the Bible
also, descent from one couple is granted. The Bible itself contradicts
itself on this delicate point. It is stated there that Cain, after he
had murdered his brother Abel, took a wife of another people. Whence
came that other people? The theory of promiscuity in primitive times,
that is to say, that the horde was endogamous, that sexual intercourse
was indiscriminate, is furthermore supported by the Hindoo myth,
according to which Brahma married his own daughter Saravasti. The same
myth turns up again among the Egyptians and the northern Edda. The
Egyptian god Ammon was the spouse of his own mother, and boasted of it.
Odin, according to the Edda, was the mate of his own daughter Frigga.[2]
Morgan proceeds from the principle that, from the state of promiscuity,
soon a higher form of sexual intercourse took shape. He designates this
the consanguine family. Here the groups, that stand in sexual relation,
are separated by grades or generations, so that grandfathers and
grandmothers, within an age group, are husbands and wives. Their
children, likewise, constitute a group of common couples; likewise the
children of these, so soon as they have reached the requisite age.
Accordingly, in contrast with the sex relations of the rawest period, in
which promiscuity of sexes exists without distinction of age, now one
generation is excluded from sexual intercourse with another. Sexual
intercourse, however, exists between brothers and sisters, male and
female cousins of the first, second and third remove. All of these
together are brothers and sisters, but towards one another, they are all
husbands and wives. This family-form corresponds with the system of
consanguinity that still existed in Hawaii during the first part of the
19th Century, in name only, but no longer in fact. On the other hand,
according to the American Indian system of consanguinity, a brother and
sister can never be the father and mother of the same child--a thing,
however, permissible in the Hawaiian family system. Probably the
consanguine family was the state that, at the time of Herodotus, existed
among the Massagetae, on the subject of which he reports: "Each man
received a wife, but all were allowed to use her." And he continues: "At
any time a man desires a woman, he hangs his quiver in front of his
wagon, and cohabits, unconcerned, with her.... He at the same time
sticks his staff into the ground, a symbol of his own act....
Cohabitation is exercised in public."[3] Similar conditions Bachofen
shows have existed among the Lycians, Etruscans, Cretans, Athenians,
Lesbians and Egyptians.
According to Morgan, the consanguine family is supervened by a third and
higher form of family relationship, which he designates as the Punaluan
family. _Punalua_, "dear friend," "intimate companion."
Cunow, in his above named book, takes exception to Morgan's views that
the consanguine family, which rests on the organization of marriage
classes by generations, preceded the punaluan family as an original
organization. Cunow does not see in the consanguine family the most
primitive of all social forms, until now discovered. He sees in it
merely a middle form, that takes its origin in the generation groups; a
transition stage toward the pure gentile organization, on which, as a
graft, the division in age classes, belonging to the consanguine family
system, still continues for a time in altered form, along with the
division in totem-groups.[4] Cunow explains further: The division in
classes--every individual, man or woman, carries the name of his or her
class and generation group totem--does not serve to exclude sexual
intercourse between collateral, but to prevent cohabitation between
relatives in the ascending and descending line, between parents and
children, aunts and nephews, uncles and nieces. Terms such as "aunt,"
"uncle," etc., he designates as grade-names.
Cunow furnishes the proofs for the correctness of the views in which he
differs from Morgan on some points. But, however he may differ from
Morgan in single instances, he emphatically defends him against the
attacks of Westermann and others. He says:
"Although here and there a hypothesis of Morgan may have proved itself
false, and some others may be allowed only a qualified approval, that
merit none can gainsay him that he has been the first to establish the
identity of the North American totem-group with the gentile organization
of the Romans; and, secondly, to demonstrate that our modern systems of
consanguinity and family-forms are the result of a long process of
development. In a measure he has thereby first made recent
investigations possible; he has first built the foundation on which we
may build further." In the introduction also to his book he says
expressly that his own work is partly a supplement to Morgan's book on
primitive man.
The Westermanns, the Starckes, the Zieglers--the latter of whom, in his
book, criticized in the introduction to the twenty-fifth edition of this
work, refers mainly to the first named, in order to attack our
statements with theirs--will have to submit, with good grace or bad, to
the fact that the rise and development of the family has not taken the
course that fits in with their bourgeois prejudices. The refutation
that, in the last part of his work, Cunow bestows upon Westermann and
Starcke, Ziegler's authorities, are calculated to enlighten their most
fanatic followers upon the value of their caviling criticisms of, and
arguments against, Morgan.
According to Morgan, the punaluan family has its start with the
exclusion of consanguineous brothers and sisters, on the mother's side.
Where a woman has several husbands, the evidence of paternity is
impossible. Paternity becomes a fiction. Even to-day, under the rule of
strict monogamous marriage, paternity, as Goethe, in his
"Apprenticeship," lets Frederick say, "rests only upon faith." If with
monogamy, paternity is often doubtful, it is impossible of proof in
polygamy: only descent from the mother is certain and unquestionable.
Accordingly, descent from the mother afforded the only criterion. As all
deep-reaching transformations in the social relations of primitive man
are accomplished only slowly, the change of the so-called consanguine
into the punaluan family must unquestionably have engaged vast periods
of time, and been broken through by many relapses, still noticeable in
much later days. The proximate external inducement for the development
of the punaluan family was, possibly, the necessity of splitting up the
strongly swollen membership of the family, to the end that new grounds
could be occupied for cattle ranges and agriculture. Probably, also,
with the reaching of a higher grade of civilization, a sense gradually
asserted itself of the harmfulness and indecorousness of sexual
intercourse between brothers and sisters, and close relatives. In favor
of this theory stands a pretty tradition, that, as related by Cunow,
Gaston found among the Dieyeries, one of the South Australian tribes, on
the rise of the "Mordu" consanguine group. He says:
"After creation, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and other near
relatives married promiscuously among one another, until the evil
effects of such connections showed themselves clearly. A conference of
leaders was held, and it was considered in what way this could be
avoided. The outcome of the conference was a request to the Muramura
(Great Spirit); and he ordered in his answer that the tribe be divided
into several branches, and that, in order to distinguish them, they be
called by different names, after animate or inanimate objects. For
instance: after the dingo, the mouse, the emu, the rain, the
iguana-lizard, etc. The members of one and the same group could not
marry another. The son of a Dingo could not, for instance, marry the
daughter of a Dingo; each of the two could, however, enter into
connections with the Mouse, the Emu, the Rat, or any other family."
This tradition is more sensible and natural, by a good deal, than the
Christian tradition, taught by the Bible. It shows plainly the rise of
the consanguine groups. Moreover, Paul Lafargue, makes in the "Neue
Zeit" the sagacious, and, we think, felicitous point, that names, such
as Adam and Eve, are not names of individual persons, but the names of
gentes, in which, at the time, the Jews were joined. Lafargue solves by
his argument a series of otherwise obscure and contradictory passages in
the first Book of Moses. Again, M. Beer calls attention, likewise in the
"Neue Zeit," that, to this day, it is a conjugal custom among Jews that
the bride and the bridegroom's mother _may not carry the same name_,
otherwise--thus runs this belief--a misfortune will befall the family:
sickness and death will pursue them. In our opinion, this is a further
proof for the correctness of Lafargue's theory. The gentile organization
forbids marriage between persons that descend from the same gens stock.
Such a common descent must be considered to exist, according to gentile
principles, between the bride, that carries the name of "Eve," and the
bridegroom's mother of the same name. Modern Jews, of course, have no
longer the remotest suspicion of the real connection between their
prejudice and their old gentile constitution, which forbade such
marriages of relatives. The old gentile order had for its object to
avoid the degenerating consequences of in-breeding. Although this
gentile constitution has for thousands of years been destroyed among the
Jews, tradition, as we see, has continued to live in superstition.
Quite possible, the experience, made at an early day with the breeding
of animals, revealed the harmfulness of in-breeding. How far this
experience went transpires from the manner in which, according to the
first Book of Moses, chap. 30, verse 32 and sequel, Jacob understood how
to outwit his father-in-law Laban, by knowing how to encompass the birth
of eanlings that were streaked and pied, and which, according to Laban's
promises, were to be Jacob's. The old Israelites had, accordingly, long
before Darwin, studied Darwinism.
Once upon the subject of the conditions existing among the old Jews, a
few other facts are in order, clearly proving that, among them, descent
in the female line was actually in force of old. True enough, on the
subject of woman, I Moses, 3, 16, runs this wise: "And thy desire shall
be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee;" and the verse also
undergoes the variation: "the woman shall leave father and mother, and
cleave to her husband." In point of fact, however, I Moses, 2, 24, has
it this way: "_Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and
shall cleave unto his wife_, and they shall be one flesh." The same
language recurs in Matthew 19, 15; Mark 10, 7, and in the Epistle to the
Ephesians 5, 31. The command sprang, accordingly, from the system of
descent in the female line, and the exegetists, at a loss what to do
with it, allowed it to appear in a light that is utterly false.
Descent in female line appears clearly also in IV Moses, 32, 41. It is
there said that Jair had a father, who was of the tribe of Judah, but
his mother was of the tribe of Manasseh, and Jair is expressly called
the son of Manasseh, and he inherited in that tribe. Another instance of
descent in the female line among the Jews is met in Nehemiah 7, 63.
There the children of a priest, who took to wife one of the daughters of
Barzillai--a Jewish clan--are called children of Barzillai; they are,
accordingly, not called after the father, who, moreover, as a priest
occupied a privileged position, but after the mother. For the rest,
already in the days of the Old Testament, accordingly, in historic
times, the father-right prevailed among the Jews, and the clan and tribe
organization rested on descent in the male line. Accordingly, the
daughters were shut off as heirs, as may be seen in I Moses 31, 14-15,
where even Leah and Rachel, the daughters of Laban, complain: "Is there
yet any portion or inheritance for us in our father's house? Are we not
counted of him strangers? for he has sold us, and hath quite devoured
also our money."
As happened with all peoples where descent in male replaced descent in
female line, woman among the Jews stood wholly bereft of rights. Wedlock
was marriage by purchase. On woman the obligation was laid of the
strictest chastity; on the other hand, man was not bound by the same
ordinance; he, moreover, was privileged to possess several wives. Did
the husband, after the bridal night, believe to have found that his wife
had, before marriage, lost her maidenhood, not only had he the right to
cast her off, she was stoned to death. The same punishment fell upon the
adultress; upon the husband, however, only in case he committed adultery
with a married Jewish woman. According to V Moses 24, 1-4, the husband
had also the right to cast off his newly-married wife, if she found no
favor in his eyes, even if only out of dislike. He was then to write her
a bill of divorcement, give it in her hand, and let her out of the
house. An expression of the low position that woman took later among the
Jews is furthermore found in the circumstances that, even to this day,
woman attends divine service in the synagogue, in a space strictly
separated from the men, and they are not included in the prayers.[5]
The relations of the sexes in the punaluan family consisted, according
to Morgan, in one or more sisters, belonging to one family group,
marrying jointly one or more brothers of another group. The consanguine
sisters, or the first, second and more remote cousins were wives in
common with their husbands in common, who could not be their brothers.
These consanguine brothers, or cousins of several degrees, were the
husbands in common of their wives in common, who could not be their
sisters. With the stopping of in-breeding, the new family-form
undoubtedly contributed towards the rapid and vigorous development of
the tribes, and imparted to the tribes, that had turned to this form of
family connection, an advantage over those that still retained the old
form of connections.
In general, the physical and intellectual differences between man and
woman were vastly less in primitive days than in our society. Among all
the peoples, living in the state of savagery or barbarism, the
differences in the weight and size of the brain are slighter than among
the peoples in civilization. Likewise, in strength of body and agility,
the women among these peoples are but little behind the men. This is
attested not only by the testimony of the ancient writers on the peoples
who clung to the mother-right. Further testimony is furnished by the
armies of women among the Ashantees and of the King of Dahomey in West
Africa, who distinguished themselves by special bravery and ferocity.
Likewise does the opinion of Tacitus on the women of the old Germans,
and Caesar's accounts of the women of the Iberians and Scots confirm the
fact. Columbus had to sustain a fight before Santa Cruz with an Indian
skiff in which the women fought as bravely as the men; and we find this
theory further confirmed in the passages from Havelock Ellis's work,
"Man and Woman," which Dr. Hope B. Adams-Walther deals upon in Nos. 39
and 40 of the "Neue Zeit." He says:
"About the Andombis of the Congo, Johnson relates that the women work
hard as carriers and in other occupations. All the same, they lead a
perfectly happy life. They are often stronger and more handsomely built
than the men; not a few of them have positively magnificent figures.
Parke styles the Manynema of the same neighborhood 'fine animals,' and
he finds the women very stately. They carry burdens as heavy as the men
and with equal ease. A North American Indian chief said to Hearne:
'Women are created for labor; a woman can carry or drag as much as two
men.' Schellong, who published a painstaking study on the Papuans of New
Guinea in the Ethnologic Journal, issued in 1891, is of the opinion that
the women are more strongly built than the men. In the interior of
Australia, women are sometimes beaten by men out of jealousy; but it
happens not infrequently that it is the man, who, on such occasions,
receives the stronger dose. In Cuba the women fought shoulder to
shoulder with the men. Among some tribes in India, as well as the
Pueblos of North and the Patagonians of South America, the women are as
tall as the men. Even among the Arabians and Druses the difference in
size is slight; and yet nearer home, among the Russians, the sexes are
more alike than is the case among the western Europeans. Accordingly, in
all parts of the earth there are instances of equal or approximately
equal physical development."
The family relations that flow from the Punaluan family were these: The
children of my mother's sisters are her children, and the children of my
father's brothers are his children, and all together are my brothers and
sisters. Conversely, the children of my mother's brothers are her
nephews and nieces, and the children of my father's sisters are his
nephews and nieces, and they, all together, are my cousins. Again, the
husbands of my mother's sisters are her husbands also, and the wives of
my father's brothers are also his wives; but my father's sisters and my
mother's brothers are excluded from family relationship, and their
children are my cousins.[6]
Along with arising civilization, sexual intercourse is proscribed
between brothers and sisters, and the proscription gradually extends to
the remotest collateral relatives on the mother's side. A new group of
consanguinity arises, the gens, which, in its first form, is made up of
a series of consanguine and more remote sisters, together with their
children and their consanguine and more remote brothers on their
mother's side. The gens has a common female ancestor, from whom the
female successors descend in generations. The husbands of these women
are not of the consanguine group, the gens, of their wives; they are of
the gens of their sisters. Conversely, the children of these men belong
to the family group of their, the children's mother, descent being in
the female line. The mother is the head of the family; and thus arises
the "mother-right," which for a long time constitutes the basis of the
family and of inheritance. In keeping therewith--so long as descent was
recognized in the female line--woman had a seat and voice in the
councils of the gens; they voted in the election of the sachems and of
the military chiefs, and deposed them.
About the Lycians, who abided by the mother-right, Herodotus says;
"Their customs are partly Cretan, partly Carian. They have, however, a
custom that distinguishes them from all other nations in the world. Ask
a Lycian who he is, and he answers by giving you his own name, the name
of his mother, and so on in the female line. Aye, if a free-born woman
marries a slave, her children are citizens, but if a free man marries a
stranger, or takes a concubine, even if he be the highest person in the
State, his children forfeit all citizen rights."
In those days, "matrimonium" and not "patrimonium," "mater familias"
and not "pater familias" were the terms used; and the native land is
called the "dear motherland." As with the previous family-forms, so did
the gens rest upon the community of property, and had a communistic
system of household. The woman is the real guide and leader of this
family community; hence she enjoys a high degree of respect, in the
house as well as in the affairs of the family community concerning the
tribe. She is judge and adjuster of disputes, and frequently performs
the ceremonies of religion as priestess. The frequent appearance of
Queens and Princesses in antiquity, their controlling influence, even
there where their sons reigned,
|
brilliant sunshine which will endure there all day unchanged, you
will not ride three miles without needing a mackintosh. But the residents,
knowing that during the greater part of the year the showers are light and
of brief duration, take no precautions against them; and indeed an island
shower seems to be harmless to any one but an invalid, for it is not a
climate in which one easily "takes cold."
The very slight changes in temperature between day and night make the
climate agreeable, and I think useful, to persons in tender health. But I
do not believe it can be safely recommended for all cases of consumption.
If the patient has the disease fully developed, and if it has been
caused by lack of nutrition, I should think the island air likely to be
insufficiently bracing. For persons who have "weak lungs" merely, but no
actual disease, it is probably a good and perfectly safe climate; and if
sea-bathing is part of your physician's prescription, it can, as I said
before, be enjoyed in perfection here by the tenderest body all the year
round.
[Illustration: GOVERNMENT BUILDINGS, HONOLULU.]
Honolulu, being the capital of the kingdom, contains the government
offices; and you will perhaps be surprised, as I was, to find an excellent
public hospital, a reform school, and other proper and well-managed
charities. When you have visited these and some of the numerous schools
and the native churches, and have driven or ridden to Waikiki for a
sea-bath, and have seen the Nuanu Valley and the precipice called the
Pali, if you are American, and familiar with New England, it will be
revealed to you that the reason why all the country looks so familiar
to you is that it is really a very accurate reproduction of New
England country scenery. The white frame houses with green blinds, the
picket-fences whitewashed until they shine, the stone walls, the small
barns, the scanty pastures, the little white frame churches scattered
about, the narrow "front yards," the frequent school-houses, usually with
but little shade: all are New England, genuine and unadulterated; and
you have only to eliminate the palms, the bananas, and other tropical
vegetation, to have before you a fine bit of Vermont or the stonier parts
of Massachusetts. The whole scene has no more breadth nor freedom about it
than a petty New England village, but it is just as neat, trim, orderly,
and silent also. There is even the same propensity to put all the
household affairs under one roof which was born of a severe climate in
Massachusetts, but has been brought over to these milder suns by the
incorrigible Puritans who founded this bit of civilization.
[Illustration: ROYAL SCHOOL, HONOLULU.]
In fact, the missionaries have left an indelible mark upon these islands.
You do not need to look deep to know that they were men of force, men of
the same kind as they who have left an equally deep impress upon so large
a part of our Western States; men and women who had formed their own lives
according to certain fixed and immutable rules, who knew no better country
than New England, nor any better ways than New England ways, and to
whom it never occurred to think that what was good and sufficient in
Massachusetts was not equally good and fit in any part of the world.
Patiently, and somewhat rigorously, no doubt, they sought from the
beginning to make New England men and women of these Hawaiians; and what
is wonderful is that, to a large extent, they have succeeded.
As you ride about the suburbs of Honolulu, and later as you travel about
the islands, more and more you will be impressed with a feeling of respect
and admiration for the missionaries. Whatever of material prosperity has
grown up here is built on their work, and could not have existed but for
their preceding labors; and you see in the spirit of the people, in their
often quaint habits, in their universal education, in all that makes these
islands peculiar and what they are, the marks of the Puritans who came
here but fifty years ago to civilize a savage nation, and have done their
work so thoroughly that, even though the Hawaiian people became extinct,
it would require a century to obliterate the way-marks of that handful of
determined New England men and women.
[Illustration: COURT-HOUSE, HONOLULU.]
Their patient and effective labors seem to me, now that I have seen the
results, to have been singularly undervalued at home. No intelligent
American can visit the islands and remain there even a month, without
feeling proud that the civilization which has here been created in so
marvelously short a time was the work of his country men and women; and if
you make the acquaintance of the older missionary families, you will not
leave them without deep personal esteem for their characters, as well as
admiration of their work. They did not only form a written language
for the Hawaiian race, and painfully write for them school-books, a
dictionary, and a translation of the Scriptures and of a hymn-book; they
did not merely gather the people in churches and their children into
schools; but they guided the race, slowly and with immense difficulty,
toward Christian civilization; and though the Hawaiian is no more a
perfect Christian than the New Yorker or Massachusetts man, and
though there are still traces of old customs and superstitions, these
missionaries have eradicated the grosser crimes of murder and theft so
completely, that even in Honolulu people leave their houses open all
day and unlocked all night, without thought of theft; and there is not a
country in the world where the stranger may travel in such absolute safety
as in these islands.
The Hawaiian, or Sandwich Islands, were discovered--or rediscovered, as
some say--by Captain Cook, in January, 1778, a year and a half after
our Declaration of Independence. The inhabitants were then what we call
savages--that is to say, they wore no more clothing than the climate
made necessary, and knew nothing of the Christian religion. In the
period between 1861 and 1865 this group had in the Union armies a
brigadier-general, a major, several other officers, and more than one
hundred private soldiers and seamen, and its people contributed to the
treasury of the Sanitary Commission a sum larger than that given by most
of our own States.
[Illustration: MRS. LUCY G. THURSTON.]
In 1820 the first missionaries landed on the shores of these islands, and
Mrs. Lucy G. Thurston, one of those who came in that year, still lives, a
bright, active old lady, with a shrewd wit of her own. Thirty-three years
afterward, in 1853, the American Board of Missions determined that "the
Sandwich Islands, having been Christianized, shall no longer receive aid
from the Board;" and in this year, 1873, the natives of these islands
are, there is reason to believe, the most generally educated people in the
world. There is scarcely a Hawaiian--man, woman, or child--of suitable
age but can both read and write. All the towns and many country localities
possess substantial stone or, more often, framed churches, of the oddest
New England pattern; and a compulsory education law draws every child into
the schools, while a special tax of two dollars on every voter, and an
additional general tax, provide schools and teachers for all the children
and youth.
[Illustration: KAWAIAHO CHURCH--FIRST-NATIVE CHURCH IN HONOLULU.]
Nine hundred and three thousand dollars were given by Christian people in
the United States during thirty-five years to accomplish this result; and
to-day the islands themselves support a missionary society, which sends
the Gospel in the hands of native missionaries into other islands at its
own cost, and not only supports more than a dozen "foreign" missionaries,
but translates parts of the Bible into other Polynesian tongues.
Nor was exile from their homes and kindred the only privation the
missionaries suffered. They came among a people so vile that they had not
even a conception of right and wrong; so prone to murder and pillage that
the first Kamehameha, the conqueror, gave as excuse for his conquest that
it was necessary to make the paths safe; so debauched in their common
conversation that the earlier missionaries were obliged for years rigidly
to forbid their own children not only from acquaintance with the natives
among whom they lived, but even from learning the native language, because
to hear only the passing speech of their neighbors was to suffer the
grossest contamination.
Of those who began this good work but few now remain. Most of them have
gone to their reward, having no doubt suffered, as well as accomplished,
much. Of the first band who came out from the United States, the only one
living in 1873 is Mrs. Lucy G. Thurston, a bright, active, and lively old
lady of seventy-five years, who drives herself to church on Sundays in a
one-horse chaise, and has her own opinions of passing events. How she has
lived in the tropics for fifty years without losing even an atom of the
New England look puzzles you; but it shows you also the strength which
these people brought with them, the tenacity with which they clung
to their habits of dress and living and thought, the remorseless
determination which they imported, with their other effects, around Cape
Horn.
[Illustration: DR. JUDD.]
Then there was Dr. Judd, who has died since these lines were written, who
came out as physician to the mission, and proved himself in the islands,
as the world knows, a very able man, with statesmanship for some great
emergencies which made him for years one of the chief advisers of the
Hawaiian kings. It was to me a most touching sight to see, on a Sunday
after church, Mrs. Thurston, his senior by many years but still alert
and vigorous, taking hold of his hand and tenderly helping him out of the
church and to his carriage.
[Illustration: DR. COAN.]
And in Hilo, when you go to visit the volcano, you will find Dr. Coan, one
of the brightest and loveliest spirits of them, all, the story of whose
life in the remote island whose apostle he was, is as wonderful and as
touching as that of any of the earlier apostles, and shows what great
works unyielding faith and love can do in redeeming a savage people. When
Dr. and Mrs. Coan came to the island of Hawaii, its shores and woods were
populous; and through their labors and those of the Reverend Mr. Lyman
and one or two others, thousands of men and women were instructed in
the truths of Christianity, inducted into civilized habits of life, and
finally brought into the church.
As you sail along the green coast of Hawaii from its northern point to
Hilo, you will be surprised at the number of quaint little white churches
which mark the distances almost with the regularity of mile-stones; if,
later, you ride through this district or the one south of Hilo, you will
see that for every church there is also a school-house; you will see
native children reading and writing as well as our own at home; you may
hear them singing tunes familiar in our own Sunday-schools; you will see
the native man and woman sitting down to read their newspaper at the close
of day; and if you could talk with them, you would find they knew almost
as much about our late war as you do, for they took an intense interest in
the war of the rebellion. And you must remember that when, less than forty
years ago, Dr. and Mrs. Coan came to Hilo, the people were naked savages,
with but one church and one school-house in the district, and almost
without printed books or knowledge of reading. They flocked to hear the
Gospel. Thousands removed from a distance to Hilo, where, in their
rapid way, they built up a large town, and kept up surely the strangest
"protracted meeting" ever held; and going back to their homes after many
months, they took with them knowledge and zeal to build up Christian
churches and schools of their own.
Over these Dr. Coan has presided these many years; not only preaching
regularly on Sundays and during the week in the large native church at
Hilo, and in two or three neighboring churches, but visiting the more
distant churches at intervals to examine and instruct the members, and
keep them all on the right track. He has seen a region very populous
when he first came to it decrease until it has now many more deserted and
ruined house-places than inhabited dwellings; but, also, he has seen a
great population turned from darkness to light, a considerable part of it
following his own blameless and loving life as an example, and very many
living to old age steadfast and zealous Christians.
On your first Sunday at Honolulu you will probably attend one or other of
the native churches. They are commodious buildings, well furnished; and a
good organ, well played, will surprise you. Sunday is a very quiet day in
the Islands: they are a church-going people, and the empty seats in
the Honolulu native churches give you notice of the great decrease in
population since these were built.
[Illustration: BETHEL CHURCH.]
If you go to hear preaching in your own language, it will probably be to
the Seamen's Chapel where the Rev. Mr. Damon preaches--one of the oldest
and one of the best-known residents of Honolulu. This little chapel was
brought around Cape Horn in pieces, in a whale-ship many years ago, and
was, I believe, the first American church set up in these islands. It is
a curious old relic, and has seen many changes. Mr. Damon has lived here
since 1846 a most zealous and useful life as seamen's chaplain. He is, in
his own field, a true and untiring missionary, and to his care the port
owes a clean and roomy Seamen's Home, a valuable little paper, _The
Friend_, which was for many years the chief reading of the whalemen who
formerly crowded the ports of Hawaii; and help in distress, and fatherly
advice, and unceasing kindness at all times to a multitude of seamen
during nearly thirty years. The sailors, who quickly recognize a genuine
man, have dubbed him "Father Damon;" and he deserves, what he has long
had, their confidence and affection.
[Illustration: DR. DAMON.]
The charitable and penal institutions of Honolulu are quickly seen, and
deserve a visit. They show the care with which the Government has looked
after the welfare of the people. The Queen's Hospital is an admirably
kept house. At the Reform School you will see a number of boys trained and
educated in right ways. The prison not only deserves a visit for itself,
but from its roof you obtain, as I said before, one of the best views of
Honolulu and the adjacent country and ocean.
[Illustration: QUEEN'S HOSPITAL, HONOLULU.]
Then there are native schools, elementary and academic, where you will see
the young Hawaiian at his studies, and learn to appreciate the industry
and thoroughness with which education is carried on all over these
islands. You will see also curious evidence of the mixture of races here;
for on the benches sit, and in the classes recite, Hawaiian, Chinese,
Portuguese, half white and half Chinese children; and the little
pig-tailed Celestial reads out of his primer quite as well as any.
[Illustration: NATIVE SCHOOL-HOUSE IN HONOLULU.]
In the girls' schools you will see an occasional pretty face, but fewer
than I expected to see; and to my eyes the Hawaiian girl is rarely very
attractive. Among the middle-aged women, however, you often meet with fine
heads and large, expressive features. The women have not unfrequently
a majesty of carriage and a tragic intensity of features and expression
which are quite remarkable. Their loose dress gives grace as well as
dignity to their movements, and whoever invented it for them deserves
more credit than he has received. It is a little startling at first to see
women walking about in what, to our perverted tastes, look like calico
or black stuff night-gowns; but the dress grows on you as you become
accustomed to it; it lends itself readily to bright ornamentation; it
is eminently fit for the climate; and a stately Hawaiian dame, marching
through the street in black _holaku_--as the dress is called--with a long
necklace, or _le_, of bright scarlet or brilliant yellow flowers, bare and
untrammeled feet, and flowing hair, surmounted often by a low-crowned
felt hat, compares very favorably with a high-heeled, wasp-waisted,
absurdly-bonneted, fashionable white lady.
[Illustration: COCOA-NUT GROVE, AND RESIDENCE OF THE LATE KING KAMEHAMEHA
V., AT WAIKIKI, OAHU.]
As you travel through the country, you see not unfrequently one of
the tall, majestic, large women, who were formerly, it is said by old
residents, more numerous than now. I have been assured by several persons
that the race has dwindled in the last half century; and all old residents
speak with admiration of the great stature and fine forms of the chiefs
and their wives in the early days. It does not appear that these chiefs
were a distinct race, but they were despotic rulers of the common people;
and their greater stature is attributed by those who should know to their
being nourished on better food, and to easier circumstances and more
favorable surroundings.
When you have seen Honolulu and the Nuanu Valley, and bathed and drunk
cocoa-nut milk at Waikiki, you will be ready for a charming excursion--the
ride around the Island of Oahu. For this you should take several days. It
is most pleasantly made by a party of three or four persons, and ladies,
if they can sit in the saddle at all, can very well do it. You should
provide yourself with a pack-mule, which will carry not only spare
clothing but some provisions; and your guide ought to take care of your
horses and be able, if necessary, to cook you a lunch. The ride is easily
done in four days, and you will sleep every night at a plantation or farm.
The roads are excellent for riding, and carriages have made the journey.
It is best to set out by way of Pearl River and return by the Pali,
as thus you have the trade-wind in your face all the way. If you are
accustomed to ride, and can do thirty miles a day, you should sleep the
first night at or near Waialua, the next at or near what is called
the Mormon Settlement, and on the third day ride into Honolulu.
If ladies are of your party, and the stages must be shorter, you can
ride the first day to Ewa, which is but ten miles; the next, to Waialua,
eighteen miles further; the third, to the neighborhood of Kahuku, twelve
miles; thence to Kahana, fifteen miles; thence to Kaalaea, twelve miles;
and the next day carries you, by an easy ride of thirteen miles, into
Honolulu. Any one who can sit on a horse at all will enjoy this excursion,
and receive benefit from it; the different stages of it are so short that
each day's work is only a pleasure. On the way you will see, near Ewa,
the Pearl Lochs, which it has recently been proposed to cede as a
naval station to the United States; and near Waialua an interesting
boarding-school for Hawaiian girls, in which they are taught not only
in the usual school studies, but in sewing, and the various arts of the
housewife. If you are curious to see the high valley in which the famous
Waialua oranges are grown, you must take a day for that purpose. Between
Kahuku and Kahana it is worth while to make a detour into the mountains to
see the Kaliawa Falls, which are a very picturesque sight. The rock, at a
height of several hundred feet, has been curiously worn by the water into
the shape of a canoe. Here, also, the precipitous walls are covered
with masses of fine ferns. At Kahana, and also at Koloa, you will see
rice-fields, which are cultivated by Chinese. You pass also on your road
several sugar-plantations; and if it is the season of sugar-boiling,
you will be interested in this process. For miles you ride along the
sea-shore, and your guide will lead you to proper places for a midday
bath, preliminary to your lunch.
After leaving the Mormon Settlement, the scenery becomes very grand--it
is, indeed, as fine as any on the Islands, and compares well with any
scenery in the world. That it can be seen without severe toil gives it,
for such people as myself, no slight advantage over some other scenery
in these Islands and elsewhere, access to which can be gained only
by toilsome and disagreeable journeys. There is a blending of sea and
mountain which will dwell in your memory as not oppressively grand, and
yet fine enough to make you thankful that Providence has made the world so
lovely and fair.
As you approach the Pali, the mountain becomes a sheer precipice for some
miles, broken only by the gorge of the Pali, up which, if you are prudent,
you will walk, letting your horses follow with the guide--though Hawaiian
horsemen ride both up and down, and have been known to gallop down the
stone-paved and slippery steep. As you look up at these tall, gloomy
precipices, you will see one of the peculiarities of a Sandwich Island
landscape. The rocks are not bare, but covered from crown to base with
moss and ferns; and these cling so closely to the surface that to your
eye they seem to be but a short, close-textured green fuzz. In fact, these
great rocks, thus adorned, reminded me constantly of the rock scenery in
such operas as Fra Diavolo; the dark green being of a shade which I do
not remember to have seen before in nature, though it is not uncommon in
theatrical scenery.
The grass remains green, except in the dry districts, all the year round;
and the common grass of the Islands is the _maniania_, a fine creeping
grass which covers the ground with a dense velvety mat; and where it is
kept short by sheep makes an admirable springy lawn. It has a fine deep
color and bears drought remarkably well; and it is the favorite pasture
grass of the Islands. I do not think it as fattening as the alfilleria of
Southern California or our own timothy or blue grass; but it is a valuable
grass to the stockmen, because it eats out every other and less valuable
kind.
On your journey around Oahu you need a guide who can speak some English;
you must take with you on the pack-mule provisions for the journey; and
it is well to have a blanket for each of your party. You will sleep each
night in a native house, unless, as is very likely to be the case, you
have invitations to stop at plantation houses on your way. At the native
houses they will kill a chicken for you, and cook taro; but they have
no other supplies. You can usually get cocoa-nuts, whose milk is very
wholesome and refreshing. The journey is like a somewhat prolonged picnic;
the air is mild and pure; and you need no heavy clothing, for you are sure
of bright sunny weather.
For your excursions near Honolulu, and for the adventure I have described,
you can hire horses; though if you mean to stay a month or two it is
better to buy. A safe and good horse, well saddled and bridled, brought to
you every morning at the hotel, costs you a dollar a day. In that case
you have no care or responsibility for the animal. But unless there are
men-of-war in port you can buy a sufficiently good riding-horse for from
twelve to twenty-five dollars, and get something of your investment back
when you leave; and you can buy saddles and all riding-gear cheaply in
Honolulu. The maintenance of a horse in town costs not over fifty cents
per day.
Your guide for a journey ought to cost you a dollar a day, which includes
his horse; when you stop for the day he unsaddles your horses and ties
them out in a grass-field where they get sufficient nourishment. For your
accommodation at a native house, you ought to pay fifty cents for each
person of your party, including the guide. The proprietor of the Honolulu
hotel is very obliging and readily helps you to make all arrangements for
horses and guides; and if you have brought any letters of introduction, or
make acquaintances in the place, you will find every body ready to assist
you. Riding is the pleasantest way of getting about; but on Oahu the roads
are sufficiently good to drive considerable distances, and carriages are
easily obtainable.
One of the pleasant surprises which meet a northern traveler in these
islands is the number of strange dishes which appear on the table and in
the bill of fare. Strawberries, oranges--the sweetest and juiciest I have
eaten anywhere, except perhaps in Rio de Janeiro--bananas and cocoa-nuts,
you have at will; but besides these there are during the winter months the
guava, very nice when it is sliced like a tomato and eaten with sugar and
milk; taro, which is the potato of the country and, in the shape of poi,
the main subsistence of the native Hawaiian; bread-fruit; flying-fish,
the most tender and succulent of the fish kind; and, in their season,
the mango, the custard-apple, the alligator-pear, the water-melon, the
rose-apple, the ohia, and other fruits.
Taro, when baked, is an excellent and wholesome vegetable, and from its
leaves is cooked a fine substitute for spinach, called _luau_. Poi also
appears on your hotel table, being the national dish, of which many
foreigners have become very fond. It is very fattening and easily
digested, and is sometimes prescribed by physicians to consumptives.
As you drive about the suburbs of Honolulu you will see numerous taro
patches, and may frequently see the natives engaged in the preparation of
poi, which consists in baking the root or tuber in underground ovens, and
then mashing it very fine, so that if dry it would be a flour. It is
then mixed with water, and for native use left to undergo a slight
fermentation. Fresh or unfermented poi has a pleasant taste; when
fermented it tastes to me like book-binder's paste, and a liking for it
must be acquired rather than natural, I should say, with foreigners.
[Illustration: HAWAIIAN POI DEALER.]
So universal is its use among the natives that the manufacture of poi is
carried on now by steam-power and with Yankee machinery, for the sugar
planters; and the late king, who was avaricious and a trader, incurred the
dislike of his native subjects by establishing a poi-factory of his own
near Honolulu. Poi is sold in the streets in calabashes, but it is also
shipped in considerable quantities to other islands, and especially to
guano islands which lie southward and westward of this group. On these
lonely islets, many of which have not even drinking-water for the laborers
who live on them, poi and fish are the chief if not the only articles of
food. The fish, of course, are caught on the spot, but poi, water, salt,
and a few beef cattle for the use of the white superintendents are carried
from here.
Taro is a kind of _arum_. It grows, unlike any other vegetable I know of
unless it be rice, entirely under water. A taro patch is surrounded by
embankments; its bottom is of puddled clay; and in this the cutting, which
is simply the top of the plant with a little of the tuber, is set. The
plants are set out in little clumps in long rows, and a man at work in a
taro patch stands up to his knees in water. Forty square feet of taro, it
is estimated, will support a person for a year, and a square mile of
taro will feed over 15,000 Hawaiians.
[Illustration: THE PALACE, HONOLULU.]
By-the-way, you will hear the natives say _kalo_ when they speak of taro;
and by this and other words in common use you will presently learn of
a curious obliquity in their hearing. A Hawaiian does not notice any
difference in the sounds of _r_ and _l_, of _k_ and _t_, or of _b_, _p_,
and _f_. Thus the Pali, or precipice near Honolulu, is spoken of as the
Pari; the island of Kauai becomes to a resident of it Tauwai, though a
native of Oahu calls it Kauai; taro is almost universally called _kalo_;
and the common salutation, _Aloha_, which means "Love to you," and is the
national substitute for "How do you do?" is half the time _Aroha_; Lanai
is indifferently called Ranai; and Mauna Loa is in the mouths of most
Hawaiians Mauna Roa. Indeed, in the older charts the capital of the
kingdom is called Honoruru.
Society in Honolulu possesses some peculiar features, owing in part to the
singularly isolated situation of this little capital, and partly to the
composition of the social body. Honolulu is a capital city unconnected
with any other place in the world by telegraph, having a mail once a month
from San Francisco and New Zealand, and dependent during the remainder of
the month upon its own resources. To a New Yorker, who gets his news hot
and hot all day and night, and can't go to sleep without first looking
in at the Fifth Avenue Hotel to hear the latest item, this will seem
deplorable enough; but you have no idea how charming, how pleasant, how
satisfactory it is for a busy or overworked man to be thus for a while
absolutely isolated from affairs; to feel that for a month at least the
world must get on without your interfering hand; and though you may dread
beforehand this enforced separation from politics and business, you will
find it very pleasant in the actual experience.
As you stand upon the wharf in company with the élite of the kingdom to
watch the steamer depart, a great burden falls from your soul, because for
a month to come you have not the least responsibility for what may happen
in any part of the planet. Looking up at the black smoke of the departing
ship, you say to yourself, "Who cares?" Let what will happen, you are not
responsible. And so, with a light heart and an easy conscience, you get
on your horse (price $15), and about the time the lady passengers on the
steamer begin to turn green in face, you are sitting down on a spacious
_lanai_ or veranda, in one of the most delightful sea-side resorts in the
world, with a few friends who have determined to celebrate by a dinner
this monthly recurrence of their non-intercourse with the world.
[Illustration: EMMA, QUEEN OF KAMEHAMEHA IV.]
The people are surprisingly hospitable and kind and know how to make
strangers at home; they have leisure, and know how to use it pleasantly;
the climate controls their customs in many respects, and nothing is
pursued at fever heat as with us. What strikes you, when you have found
your way into Honolulu society and looked around, is a certain sensible
moderation and simplicity which is in part, I suspect, a remainder of the
old missionary influence; there is a certain amount of formality, which
is necessary to keep society from deteriorating, but there is no striving
after effect; there are, so far as a stranger discovers, no petty cliques
or cabals or coteries, and there is a very high average of intelligence:
they care about the best things.
They know how to dine; and having good cooks and sound digestions, they
add to these one requisite to pleasant dining which some more pretentious
societies are without: they have leisure. Nothing is done in haste in
Honolulu, where they have long ago convinced themselves that "to-morrow is
another day." Moreover, you find them well-read, without being blue; they
have not muddled their history by contradictory telegraphic reports of
matters of no consequence; in fact, so far as recent events are concerned,
they stand on tolerably firm ground, having perused only the last monthly
record of current events. Consequently, they have had time to read and
enjoy the best books; to follow with an intelligent interest the most
notable passing events; and as most of them come from families or have
lived among people who have had upon their own shoulders some conscious
share of government, political, moral, or religious, these talkers are
not pedantic, but agreeable. As to the ladies, you find them charming;
beautifully dressed, of course, but they have not given the whole day
and their whole minds to the dress; they are cheerful, easily excited to
gayety, long accustomed to take life easily, and eating as though they did
not know what dyspepsia was.
Indeed, when you have passed a month in the Islands you will have a better
opinion of idleness than you had before, though in some respects the odd
effects of a tropical climate will hardly meet your approval. Euchre,
for instance, takes the place here which whist holds elsewhere as the
amusement of sensible people.
[Illustration: A HAWAIIAN CHIEF.]
Finally, society in Honolulu is respectable. It is fashionable to be
virtuous, and if you were "fast," I think you would conceal it. The
Government has always encouraged respectability, and discountenanced vice.
The men who have ruled the Islands--not the missionaries alone, but the
political rulers since--have been plain, honest, and, in the main, wise
men; and they have kept politics respectable in the little monarchy. The
disreputable adventurer element which degrades our politics, and invades
society too, is not found here. You will say the rewards are not great
enough to attract this vile class. Perhaps not; but at any rate it is not
there; and I do not know, in short, where else in the world you would find
so kindly, so gracefully hospitable, and, at the same time, so simple and
enjoyable a society as that of Honolulu.
No one can visit the Islands without being impressed by the boundless
hospitality of the sugar planters, who, with their superintendents
and managers, form, away from the few towns, almost the only white
inhabitants. Hospitality so free-handed is, I suspect, found in few
other parts of the world. Though Honolulu has now a commodious hotel, the
residents keep up their old habits of graceful welcome to strangers. The
capital has an excellent band, which plays in public places several times
a week; and it does not lack social entertainments, parties, and dinners,
to break the monotony of life. Not only the residents of foreign birth,
but a few Hawaiians also, people of education, culture, and means,
entertain gracefully and frequently.
As for the common people, they are by nature or long custom, or both, as
kindly and hospitable as men can be. If you ask for lodgings at night-fall
at a native hut, you are received as though you were conferring a favor;
frequently the whole house, which has but one room, is set apart for you,
the people going elsewhere to sleep; a chicken is slain in your honor, and
for your exclusive supper; and you are served by the master of the house
himself. The native grass-house, where it has been well built, is a very
comfortable structure. It has but a single room, calico curtains serving
as partitions by night; at one end a standing bed-place, running across
the house, provides sleeping accommodations for the whole family, however
numerous. This bed consists of mats; and the covers are either of tapa
cloth--which is as though you should sleep under newspapers--or of
blankets. The more prosperous people have often, besides this, an enormous
bedstead curtained off and reserved for strangers; and you may see the
women take out of their chests, when you ask hospitality, blankets,
sheets, and a great number of little pillows for the bed, as well as
|
2d of that month. 'The time was five o'clock in the afternoon. The
sea was exceptionally smooth, and the officers were provided with
good telescopes. The monster had a smooth skin, devoid of scales, a
bullet-shaped head, and a face like an alligator. It was of immense
length, and along the back was a ridge of fins about _fifteen_ feet in
length and _six_ feet apart. It moved slowly, and was seen by all the
ship's officers.'
This account was further supplemented by a sketch in a well-known
illustrated paper, from the pencil of Lieutenant W. P. Hynes of the
_Osborne_, who to the above description adds, that the fins were of
irregular height, and about forty feet in extent, and 'as we were
passing through the water at ten and a half knots, I could only get a
view of it "end on."' It was about fifteen or twenty feet broad at the
shoulders, with flappers or fins that seemed to have a semi-revolving
motion. 'From the top of the head to the part of the back where it
became immersed, I should consider about fifty feet, and that seemed
about a third of the whole length. All this part was smooth, resembling
a seal.'
In the following month, the Scottish prints reported, that when the
Earl of Glasgow's steam-yacht _Valetta_ was cruising off Garroch Head,
on the coast of Bute, with a party of ladies and gentlemen on board,
an enormous fish or serpent, forty feet in length and about fifteen
in diameter, suddenly rose from the sea. Under sail and steam the
_Valetta_ gave chase. A gentleman on board speared it with a salmon
'leister;' on which the serpent dived, and after a time reappeared with
the iron part of the weapon sticking in its back. The monster scudded
along for some minutes, again dived, and was not seen afterwards.
There is little doubt, however, that the animal which figured in this
instance was a very large basking-shark (_Selache maxima_).
An animal of exactly similar shape and dimensions was reported as being
seen in the subsequent August by twelve persons in Massachusetts Bay;
and soon after on three different occasions in the same quarter by the
crew of a coasting vessel.
In May 1877, the'sea-serpent' would seem to have shifted his quarters
to the Indian Ocean, which it must be remarked is the habitat of the
true sea-snakes. On the 21st of that month, in latitude 2° north and
longitude 90° 53′ east, the monster was alleged to have been seen by
the crew of the barque _Georgina_, bound from Rangoon to Falmouth. It
seemed to be about fifty feet long, 'gray and yellow in colour, and ten
or eleven inches thick. It was on view for about twenty minutes, during
which time it crossed the bow, and ultimately disappeared under the
port quarter.' A second account of this affair stated, that 'for some
days previously the crew had seen several smaller serpents, of from six
to ten feet in length, playing about the vessel.'
Strange as all these stories seem, it is difficult to suppose they are
all quite untrue, for nautical superstition apart, we have the ready
testimony of various men of education and veracity. That there is
only one serpentine monster in the ocean, is an idea which the great
disparity in the various descriptions would seem to contradict; and
certainly the most astounding aspect presented by this supposed and
most ubiquitous animal, was his form and size when seen by the officers
of the Queen's yacht off the coast of Sicily; though it is somewhat
singular that these gentlemen made no attempt to kill or capture the
mighty fish, or whatever it was they saw.
By way of conclusion to these remarks we may briefly summarise the
chief facts presented by'sea-serpent tales' as they appear under the
light of scientific criticism. There is, it must firstly be remarked,
nothing in the slightest degree improbable in the idea that an ordinary
species of sea-snake, belonging to a well-known group of reptiles,
may undergo a gigantic development and appear as a monster serpent of
the deep. The experience of comparative anatomists is decidedly in
agreement with such an opinion. Largely developed individuals of almost
every species of animals and plants occasionally occur. Within the past
few years new species of cuttle-fishes--of dimensions compared with
which the largest of hitherto known forms are mere pigmies--have been
brought to light. And if huge cuttle-fishes may thus be developed,
why, it may be asked, may not sea-snakes of ordinary size be elevated,
through extraordinary development, to become veritable 'leviathans'
of the deep? That there is a strong reason for belief in the veracity
of sea-serpent tales, is supported by the consideration of the utter
want of any motive for prevarication, and by the very different and
varied accounts given of the monsters seen. That the appearances cannot
always be explained on the supposition that lifeless objects, such
as trees, sea-weed, &c. have been seen, is equally evident from the
detailed nature of many of the accounts of the animals, which have
been inspected from a near distance. And it may also be remarked that
in some cases, in which largely developed sea-snakes themselves may
not have appeared, certain fishes may have represented the reptilian
inhabitants of the ocean. As Dr Andrew Wilson has insisted, a giant
tape-fish viewed from a distance would personate a'sea-serpent' in a
very successful manner; and there can be no doubt that tape-fishes have
occasionally been described as'sea-serpents.'
On the whole, if we admit the probability of giant-developments of
ordinary species of sea-snakes; or the existence (and why not?) of
enormous species of sea-snakes and certain fishes _as yet unknown to
science_, the solution of the sea-serpent problem is not likely to be
any longer a matter of difficulty.
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.
Strange and terrible tidings reached Enderby the day after that. As
Deborah Fleming was standing in the red sunset, she saw old Jordan, in
his scarlet waistcoat and shirt sleeves, running bare-headed towards
her under the archway. Deborah went quietly forward to meet him,
dreading and yet hoping, she knew not what.
'Master Sinclair's shot!' gasped the old man. 'Killed a-duelling!'
'Who shot him?' asked Deborah, with the blood coursing in a fierce wild
tide of joy through her veins, and yet a sure foreboding of the truth.
'Who? Who?'
'Need ye ask, Mistress Deborah?' asked Jordan, shaking his gray head,
and regarding her with a wild reproachful gaze. 'Why, Master Charlie.
Who else?'
'But he killed him in fair fight, Jordan?' panted Deborah, with her
hands pressed over her beating heart, and a loud ringing in her ears.
'No one can blame him or touch him for that! O Charlie, O my brother!'
and she fell in a dead-faint at old Jordan's feet. He caught her up,
and bore her in to Marjory; with anxious earnest tenderness they cared
for her. But Deborah was soon herself. Rousing, she saw the two old
sorrowful faces; and with a hand on a shoulder of each ancient lover,
burst into a wild laugh of joy. 'Free! free!' she cried. 'Free to act
and think, and laugh and weep! Charlie has set me free! The old man is
_dead_! Oh, poor sad old man, _whither has fled his soul?_--Jordan,
is Charlie hurt? Tell me truly; is my poor, sweet, gallant, faithful
Charlie hurt?' And she sat up, erect and resolute.
'No, no, my lamb; he ain't hurt; he's safe enow; only he must be off
for a time out o' this. Master Charlie has done for the "old fox,"
Mistress Deborah!' and Jordan began to chuckle triumphantly. Deborah
laughed too, aloud. Marjory looked on scared and scandalised.
'Oh, am I mad?' quoth Deborah, as she started up and began to pace
the stone hall like a wild creature. 'Am I mad, that I care not for
bloodshed, or that old man's hereafter, or anything, so long as I get
freedom? Free! free!' she cried aloud in ecstasy, as she ran from one
window to another laughing wildly; and then, while the two old servants
stood half-aghast, she sped away into the open air, into the sun--and
liberty! There, alone, on the green turf, under the waving trees,
under the blue and boundless sky; where chased the little white clouds
like winged spirits; while through all the beautiful demesne, where
the birds were singing melodiously, and all nature was glad, Deborah
Fleming wept her wild heart calm.
But Mistress Fleming? Young Mistress Margaret Fleming? She shed
not a tear that day. With a heart relieved of a mighty weight, yet
overcharged with anxiety, love, and fear, she watched till darkness
fell, ever thinking of Deborah's wild and radiant face, till, late on
in the night, or rather early morning, tidings were sent her of her
love.
And where was Charlie Fleming then? Far, far away--hunted by the dogs
of vengeance and the law. Mounted on his good bay horse, he passed
through Enderby that night, in his wild flight; and as he fled, looked
back, with hand uplifted to the high dim lights of Enderby, and bade
it--a long adieu. Turrets, towers, and trees passed from him, like
shadows in a dream....
Deborah's trials were not ended. Where was her poor unhappy father?
Gone, gone again, ere she knew of it; and she was terribly anxious
about him--as to how he would take this news; terribly anxious too,
now that reason and calmness had returned to her, about her exiled
brother, though Mistress Margaret had told her that he was safe out of
England. Thoughts, wild and vague too, of her lover and kinsman haunted
her. Where was he? She had enough to drive her distraught; but Deborah
possessed a bold heart and iron will, and would not be subdued; and
ever the glorious sense of recovered freedom made her heart throb with
ecstasy of joy.
Some days after the duel at Lincoln, while Deborah was restlessly
pacing the great lonely saloon, the outer bell rang. What now? Tidings
good or evil? She felt prepared for anything that might befall. Old
Marjory came to the door.
'Master Parry, Mistress Deborah;' and a small thin wizened man entered,
with a bag in his hand. Deborah Fleming, from her stately height,
looked down on the sly crafty face and shrinking figure, and with a
woman's swift instinctive judgment, disliked and distrusted him. She
bowed, ever so slightly. He, the cunning man of law and of the world,
was half abashed and wholly uneasy at the full gaze bent upon him, and
at the girl's bold and easy bearing. She waited for him to speak.
'Mistress Fleming,' he said with a low bow, 'at this sad time I must
humbly apologise for this intrusion. I would have spoken with Sir
Vincent; but he is away, I find. May I venture then to address his
daughter in his stead? For my business, Mistress Fleming, is with you.'
'Certainly. Sit down, Master Parry, and say what you have to say.'
With another low bow he drew up a chair, and placing his hat on the
table, and glancing first at the closed door, said in a mysterious
tone: 'I come to you, Mistress Fleming, as the bearer of two great good
pieces of intelligence; one, I am sure will afford Mistress Fleming's
generous heart great joy, and that I will reserve till last.'
Deborah bowed in silence; her instinctive thoughts uttered 'Hypocrite!'
'Mistress Fleming,' continued the lawyer, still uneasy under that
steady gaze, but still overflowing with polite urbanity and humble
deference, 'I, as the sole executor of the late Adam Sinclair' (and
his countenance lengthened visibly and his eyelids fell), 'have the
pleasure of informing you that "Deborah Fleming" is left by his
will the sole inheritor of all his property, landed and personal,
unconditionally and without reserve.'
There was silence for a moment; Deborah had started and then kept still
and calm, while first a great horror of the dead man's gold, and then
thoughts of her father and brother and Enderby, coursed through her
startled mind. In that moment the lawyer Parry shot one furtive glance
from his crafty eyes, and perceived her deep in abstracted thought; and
marvelled at her coolness and dignity, little guessing the combative
thoughts that were surging in her breast.
'This was generous of Master Sinclair,' said Deborah. 'You have
something else to tell me?' She turned her eyes on him. He fidgeted; he
avoided her gaze; he looked down, he looked out on the sky, he looked
up at the carved chimney-piece, where grotesque faces grinned down at
him; he looked anywhere but at Deborah. It was but a slight tremor,
a slight hesitation, only very quick eyes would have discerned it,
under the flow of ready words: 'Yes, Mistress Fleming; it relates to
your brother, Master Charles Fleming; and though it is a proof sure
and convincing that will clear him from a foul aspersion which has
incidentally (_incidentally_, mind you) come to my knowledge; at the
same time--and with deep reluctance I say it--it shews Master Sinclair
in ill colours, and casts bitter blame on his memory. But mark,
Mistress Fleming; Master Sinclair was my oldest friend, my benefactor;
what I tell you now, I tell you in confidence, and the secret had best
perish between your family and myself. But first I will shew what I
mean.' He then drew some papers from a bag, and spread them before
Deborah's eyes, with his hands upon them. 'See, see!' he muttered,
apparently trembling with sudden excitement, 'what Adam Sinclair
and his myrmidons have done! And to get you in his power, Mistress
Fleming! All to win your favour! I swear it, for I discovered them in
the act! This writing you would say is your brother's? There too is
his signature. But I hereby swear it to be a base forgery, and no more
Master Fleming's writing than it is mine. This was a plot to throw dust
in Sir Vincent's eyes, and disgrace on his son's name, by proving that
Master Fleming had secretly raised money on this estate.'
'I know it--I know it all,' said Deborah, very white and calm. 'Cannot
you tell me _who_ wrote this?' And she laid her finger on her brother's
name, and fixed her clear eyes upon the wrinkled crafty being before
her, till they seemed to read his soul.
'I cannot inform you of that, Mistress Fleming,' he answered with
sorrowful regret, and looked away, and up at the grinning faces that
seemed to mock him, so that he glanced quickly away from them again.
'You are generous,' said Deborah; but a look of unutterable disdain
was clouding those clear eyes with passion and with scorn. 'You will
tell me thus far, but no further, not even this creature's name. Why, I
would give all my new possessions, Master Parry, just to bring him to
justice for this. But what is your purpose in bringing this paper to
me? Am _I_ to buy it of you, as Master Sinclair would have done, had
not death taken him? I heard your name and his in connection with this
matter; no other.'
Master Parry wished himself away from Enderby, and well out of it all,
with a heavy purse. 'Mistress Fleming,' he said, 'what you suspect, or
what charge you would bring against _me_, I know not. I only swear to
you that I got possession of this paper by great and grievous trouble,
and no small exercise of talent. The villain's name who compassed this
forgery I cannot divulge; but if ye would shield the dead man's memory,
save the honour of your name, and that of your father and brother, and
prevent this paper for ever from seeing light--take it of me.'
'Ye _do_ trade on it then?' said Deborah, still with those eyes and
lips of ineffable disdain.
'Mistress Fleming, another trades with _me_,' answered the man of law,
with a semblance of grave and dignified reproof and a glance of injured
innocence. 'I have suffered much already in this cause, and small
thanks I get. If I am not well paid therefore, this paper must go back
to the owner, and he makes it public. If I am well paid, it is mine--it
is yours--to burn, to do with it what you will.'
'I see now, Master Parry, why it is more convenient to negotiate with
Mistress Fleming than with Sir Vincent. I am a woman. You can threaten
me, and think to daunt me; but you shall find yourself mistaken. If
ye are not this arch-villain himself, ye are playing into his hands.
Why, I tell ye, girl as I am, and ignorant, I know the emptiness of
your threats! To what end would this forged paper be published? What
harm could it do Charles Fleming? To publish _this_'--and Deborah rose
with a laugh of scorn, and struck her hand upon it--'would be but to
bring disgrace on him who published it--disgrace! ay, and _death_!
My brother's innocence would be proved, and this man brought to the
gallows. _Now_, would ye have me buy it, Master Parry? Nay, you had
better not, for I would have no mercy on the author of this villainy.
_Destroy_ it! Nay; I would publish it to all the world.'
'Ah Mistress, ye know little of the world then, or of the result of
such a trial. It might go hard with Master Fleming, I warn ye. But if
ye will have it so, I'll e'en give this back, and let him work his
will. He's not a man to be made a foe of with impunity. I sadly fear
ye will rue this rash act. I might have saved you. But be it, Mistress
Fleming, as you will.'
With a savage consciousness of having been worsted, nay, utterly
defeated, by a young and dauntless maiden, Master Parry stood with hat
and bag in hand. Mistress Fleming had read him through. He had won
neither gold nor favour from the future Mistress of Lincoln, only stern
defiance and proud disdain.
How he hated her, but how blandly he smiled!
'I am not afraid,' quoth haughty Mistress Fleming; and looking beyond
the lawyer and over his head, she bowed him calmly to the door.
One low reverence and a muttered curse between his teeth, and the doors
of Enderby closed for aye on Master Parry.
Deborah was herself then. With thoughts collected and brows lowering
she threw open all the windows; then standing on the hearth,
she muttered: 'He has done it himself. I am trembling now with
passion--only I would not vent it on a thing so mean--though my hands
ached to be at him, woman as I am! Have I acted and judged aright? Oh,
I know not; I know naught o' business; I cannot abide it. But I have
acted a woman's part in this; not from pity, but because it would shame
me to drag the name of Fleming through such mud. Only I was fain to
shew the worm what I _could_ do. O King, King! where art thou? O dear
father; and poor, brave, gallant, honourable Charlie! Where, where
is father, that I may tell him this great good news? O my precious
brother, to think we should e'er have doubted _thee_! Well-a-day! I
am a rich heiress--I am a great lady; I will pay all our debts; and
Enderby--Enderby is _mine_! to give away to father and to Charlie! O
wretched Adam Sinclair--poor perjured soul! Would your wealth not do
such untold good, I would none of it. Honour and charity together shall
wipe the stains from off your gold, and make it good for use.'
Sir Vincent came home late one evening, some days after Adam Sinclair's
death. Some one, some careless tongue had told him suddenly that Adam
Sinclair had met his death at the hand of Charles Fleming. He stopped
at the lodge, and got off his horse feebly.
'Mistress Dinnage,' said he, 'where is my boy Charlie?'
She gazed at him earnestly, then answered: 'He is gone away on a
journey, Sir Vincent. He'll be home again before long.'
'Before long! Ah, he's a good boy to the old man, with all his faults,
whatever they may say. Where's Adam Sinclair?'
She evaded that question. 'Come home with me,' she said tenderly; and
unwonted tears lurked in the dark splendour of her eyes.
So, arm in arm, proud young Mistress Fleming and the poor broken-down
master of Enderby walked slowly home.
Deborah saw them pass the window; and started forward and met them.
But the glorious tidings of Charlie's unstained honour, the proud
consciousness of power and position, the brightness in her eyes, and
the bright colour in her cheeks, left her, on looking on her father. He
stretched out his hands; there was terrible pathos in that feeble but
impassioned gesture, and a sad and wandering smile replaced the light
of intellect.
'Deb, little Deb! O my darling! I have been looking for thee. They told
me thou wert dead! It shook me terribly. Thank God, thou'rt alive and
well. And how is it with thee, my dove?'
'He is wandering,' whispered Margaret below her breath. 'We must nurse
him, Mistress Deborah dear; he will soon be well.'
For Deborah, leaning her brave heart on her father's breast, was
trembling like a leaf, and tears of agony were gathered in her eyes.
Was that strong mind, that tender father's care, dead to her for ever?
Would he never, never know the innocence of his darling, whose imagined
treachery had stricken him thus? 'Father!' she cried, in piercing
accents of despair, 'father! Charlie is innocent. Charlie never wrote
that paper, father dear; but a bad man did it, forging Charlie's name!
Charlie never, never raised money upon Enderby! He is as guiltless and
as true to thee as Deborah! Dost hear me, father? Dost hear me? Dost
understand?'
He smiled at her vehemence, and stroked back her hair. 'Ay; I
understand thee. Charlie is a good fellow, and our own dear brave boy.
Though that running off from school, Deb,' he whispered, 'was the wild
blood cropping up! Ha, ha, ha! _that_ was a mistake; eh, Deb?' and he
laughed vehemently again.
'O Mistress Fleming,' said Deborah, with her hand to her brow, 'this
is harder to me than all. Margaret, Margaret! what shall we do? This
is death in life.--O father, dear father! dost not know me? We have
stood side by side in all our troubles, and now all trouble is at an
end. We are rich! and Enderby, Enderby, father, is ours! We have money,
father--riches, plenty! Charlie shall come home to thee--come home and
live at Enderby! O sweet father, be thyself! Be calm, love, and God
will restore thee, make thee well. Father, father, I am little Deb! Be
my own dear father. Be thyself. Look! better times are coming, father,
for Charlie and for thee!' Wild, sweet, impassioned were Deborah's
words and tones and looks.
Sir Vincent Fleming raised his hand to his head, and gazed all round,
and gazed at her and Margaret. 'Deb,' he said, 'I am tired, very tired
of this world, dear love. Take me home, home to thy mother and to
Enderby. I must rest.'
Pale and tearless, Deborah glanced at Mistress Fleming, and led the old
man to his chair by the fireside. But for Mistress Fleming, she could
see no more; her eyes were blind with tears.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.
That night Charlie's secretly made wife Meg Dinnage wrote and
despatched a letter to Kingston Fleming, in this wise: 'Master Kingston
Fleming, we are in a sore strait. Master Sinclair is dead; ye may have
heard it. Master Charles Fleming is gone away. My Lady Deb is all
alone, for her poor father is helpless on our hands. As ye are kind and
true, come with speed to Enderby. You will be welcome.'
That same night Mistress Fleming and Deborah conferred long together,
and talked themselves light-hearted about the future. Then said
Mistress Fleming: 'Let me brush your lovely long hair, Lady Deb; for
soon you will have a maid for this and a maid for that. Lady o' Lincoln
Castle! Oh, who would have thought on such luck! I no longer hate the
poor fox who has died and left you all, but pity him from my heart. Ah,
Lady Deb, I wish Master Fleming could hear o' this.'
'_You_ know where he is hiding, Mistress Dinnage, but will not tell me.'
'Nay; I am under oath. But why should Master Fleming tell "Mistress
Dinnage" his hiding-place?'
'Ye cannot blind me, Margaret; you are also a maiden; you are happy.
Nay; come round to me, dear. The time has come. But my own selfish
sorrows have kept me dumb hitherto. Margaret, you love him! He has
spoken!' Deborah leaned back in her chair, gazing up, with her hair
falling like a golden shower behind her.
Mistress Fleming, dark-haired, dark-eyed, blushing, drooped, till she
sank and laid her head on Deborah's knees. The action was eloquent.
'And ye have kept this from me?' whispered Deborah, drooping over her.
'O Mistress Dinnage, Mistress Dinnage! but you shall be wedded now as
soon as ever Lincoln tragedy is blown over, and poor Adam Sinclair's
fate forgot. Meantime, what doeth Charlie, dear? Speak! I will guard
the secret.'
'He has gone to fight. He has 'listed with the Irish to fight against
England. Ye have driven me to add to your sorrows, Lady Deb; lightening
my own heart to tell you this.'
'O Margaret, Margaret! what could induce him to do this mad thing? Has
he really joined?'
'A week ago.'
'And a private! O Charlie Fleming, this is a sore trouble, yet no
disgrace. But you thought yourself a ruined man.'
'We must pray for him, Lady Deb. Oh, night and day he is my prayer. God
guard him!'
'It is well father cannot know of _this_;' and Deborah fell into deep
thought.
'Mistress Dinnage,' said she suddenly, 'I was happy this morning: I
heard from May Warriston.'
'I saw you did.'
'She told me news. Mistress Blancheflower was married a month ago at
Naples to Count Mazzini. There was a very grand wedding.'
'What! Did she desert Master King Fleming then, for this foreign
count?'
'Ay, she did!' said Deborah bitterly. 'I would not have believed
it. And I taunted him, and called him false and a traitor, Mistress
Dinnage, when he came over last and told me he was free. And now I hear
that _she_ threw him over so soon as the rich count appeared. Heaven
forgive her! She has cost me much.'
'For naught,' added Mistress Fleming fiercely; and then Mistress
Fleming thought, and laughed to herself. 'When Master King Fleming
comes again,' she continued softly, 'you will not chide him _then_.
No; you will be kind, for sake of those hard words. I like Master King
Fleming dearly.'
'Nay,' answered Deborah, speaking coldly and blushing warmly; 'I have
more to forgive than he. We both spoke hotly; but King said a hard
thing of me anent my wedding Master Sinclair. We were both hot. But
take my word for it, Mistress Dinnage, he will come no more to Enderby.'
'He will, and will be welcome too. He would make the Master his old
self again; so father says, and I well believe it.'
'O hush, Mistress Dinnage, hush! He will come no more to Enderby, nor
do we need him now.'
One long day passed; but another dawn brought Kingston Fleming.
Mistress Margaret, eagerly watching from her window, saw him ride up,
and was out before Marjory. As she stood in the early sun, he wondered
at her beauty, though his soul was in another's. She held his horse;
he wondered at her graciousness, little wotting that the girl's proud
heart was all subdued by the same subtle shaft that quivered in his
own. She thought of herself no more.
'Thank ye,' said Kingston. 'And thank ye, dear Mistress Dinnage, for
the little letter. Did Deborah know of _that_?'
'Nay; I writ without her knowledge. But she will welcome ye. Only try.'
'O Mistress Dinnage, I was hard and brutal with her.'
'She has forgot. Only try.'
'Where is she? And the poor old master?'
'They are in the house. I will run to him; and Lady Deb shall go into
the garden, unwitting you are here. It is best so. Go round.'
'But stay, Mistress Dinnage, one moment. Where is Charlie Fleming?'
'How can I tell you?' replied Mistress Margaret with her old hauteur.
'His sister would better know;' and turned away, as the scarlet blood
dyed face and throat and hands.
So Kingston sauntered round, just as if his heart were not knocking
against his side with tumultuous love and desperate longing hope.
There soon walked his sweet love into the garden. Little did Kingston,
there watching through the trees, know of the great fortune that had
befallen her, or he would have seen himself far enough away before
seeking Deborah Fleming's ear. Hark! she is singing. She is passing
close to him while she sings, his first--last--only love! She was
looking pale and sorrowful, that sweet Rose of Enderby. O to pluck
that fair Rose from the thorny stem of Enderby, and wear it for ever
on his breast! As he gazed, Kingston Fleming felt himself capable of
anything for her dear sake. His heart swelled with joy and triumph, to
think that she was poor and lonely, and that _he_ could hew a place
for her amongst the great ones of the earth. He stepped forward, and
faltered--'Deborah!'
Deborah was taken aback. She stood, and first faded to a white rose and
then flushed to a red, and not a word to say.
'Deborah,' said Kingston Fleming, 'don't resent my coming. I heard of
my uncle Vincent's illness--and, of Master Sinclair's death. Love! I
will not offend by word or look or deed; only bid me serve thee!'
'And hast forgiven me, Kingston?' faltered the girl, her passionate
love pleading wildly within her breast, and quelling all else beside,
forgetting utterly that she too had thought herself aggrieved.
'_Forgiven_ thee, Deb?' asked Kingston, paling. 'Hast thou forgiven
_me_? I did thee grievous wrong; I knew my words were base and false,
my noble one!'
'Ah, speak not of that, for heaven's sake! We were mad, King, and both
maybe have been to blame in our past lives. We know all now; there is
no secret between us.'
'No. If I know of Master Sinclair's death, you know of Mistress
Blancheflower's wedding.'
'Dost know _all_, King?' asked Deborah suddenly, and tears and laughter
were lurking in her upraised eyes.
'Nay; what more? Naught will surprise me.'
'Charlie has cut himself off from England, and enlisted with the Irish
rebels. Master Sinclair, little knowing my brother would kill him, has
left me all his wealth and lands.'
Kingston started; he had frowned at the first tidings, but the last
overclouded his brow like night. 'I knew naught of all this,' he
answered calmly.
'Yes, King,' continued Mistress Fleming, with her old gaiety, 'I am a
great lady now! It seems so strange for poor Deborah Fleming to be an
heiress. But bethink ye: this will save Charlie; we will have him back
soon!'
'Ay; it will save Charlie,' muttered Kingston thoughtfully.
'Why, you are not glad at my good fortune! Father, dear father, when he
is himself, will be right glad to hear it. King, you once told me you
would be proud of me if I were a grand lady. Now, ye have not a word o'
congratulation to offer me, though I am Lady of Lincoln!'
'I wish ye were aught else. Deb, I would ye were a beggar!'
'O loving wish! I have been beggar long enough. Why dost wish this?
Tell me.'
'Because it is Adam Sinclair's gold; because ye owe all to _him_. But
Deb, I must bid ye adieu, love, when I have seen your father. I came
but for a few hours; I have business at Granta.'
'Always going! always gone! King, ye are like a wreath of smoke--ever
evanishing in thin air.'
He wrung her hand, and turned away; yet he saw that tears were in her
eyes. Deborah felt that if he went, he went for ever. The truth flashed
upon her: he loved her still, but her fortune sundered them in his
eyes. What should she do? Woo him? He knew not even of her love. She
plucked a daisy from the grass, and gave it him: 'King, rememberest
thou? "He loved me _not_?"'
'_Who_ loved thee not?' And he stood and gazed upon her.
Trembling like an aspen leaf at her own boldness, she answered
tremulously: 'Why, Kingston Fleming.'
'Didst love Kingston Fleming _then_?'
'Then--now--and always!' And she sank upon his breast.
(_To be concluded next month._)
SKETCHES IN VANCOUVER ISLAND.
Vancouver Island, which forms part of British North America, and
stretches a length of three hundred miles along the coast of the
Pacific, is still little known, although singularly attractive for its
picturesque beauty, its fine climate, and its many interesting objects
in natural history. The writer of this happened to be a resident in
that beautiful island in 1876, and is able to say something of its
scenery and products.
We were particularly struck with the grandeur of the forests. The
huge dimensions of some of the trees fill one with amazement; nor
is there less surprise at the profusion of gem-like berries of many
varieties. The moist alluvial soil produces the delicious salmon-berry,
in appearance a glowing jewel of gold; these, with cranberries,
bramble-berries, currants, and a small black gooseberry, are very
abundant. The most arid and rocky situations are often fairly black
with grape-like bunches of the sweet sellal berry, which grows on a low
hardy evergreen, and defies frosts until late in the season. Another
variety of the gooseberry, larger than the black ones, with a skin
covered with a bitter and glutinous secretion, grows very abundantly on
the dryer soils. Its pulp when ripe is similar to cultivated varieties.
The red huckleberry, strawberry, and raspberry, with some others,
abound in the gravelly pine-lands. Man's constant need of timber is
abundantly met in these forests. The Douglas or red fir, a tough
dense wood, attains a great
|
sat,
all the doctors that ever taught, all the fathers that ever wrote,
were in favor of the dogma of plenary inspiration--if the universal
church, if every denomination in christendom were to assent to the
truth that the Bible is, in very deed, the Word of God--in a word, if
we had all the human authority that could possibly be had in reference
to the integrity of the Word of God, it would be utterly insufficient
as a ground of certainty; and if our faith were founded on that
authority, it would be perfectly worthless. God alone can give us the
certainty that He has spoken in His Word; and blessed be His name,
when He gives it, all the arguments, all the cavilings, all the
quibblings, all the questionings of infidels, ancient and modern, are
as the foam on the water, the smoke from the chimney-top, or the dust
on the floor. The true believer rejects them as so much worthless
rubbish, and rests in holy tranquillity in that peerless revelation
which our God has graciously given us.
It is of the very last possible importance for the reader to be
thoroughly clear and settled as to this grave question, if he would be
raised above the influence of infidelity on the one hand and
superstition on the other. Infidelity undertakes to tell us that God
has not given us a book-revelation of His mind--could not give it:
Superstition undertakes to tell us that even though God has given us a
revelation, yet we cannot be assured of it without man's authority,
nor understand it without man's interpretation. Now it is well to see
that by both alike we are deprived of the precious boon of holy
Scripture. And this is precisely what the devil aims at. He wants to
rob us of the Word of God; and he can do this quite as effectually by
the apparent self-distrust that humbly and reverently looks to wise
and learned men for authority, as by an audacious infidelity that
boldly rejects all authority, human or divine.
Take a case. A father writes a letter to his son at Canton--a letter
full of the affection and tenderness of a father's heart. He tells him
of his plans and arrangements, tells him of every thing that he thinks
would interest the heart of a son--every thing that the love of a
father's heart could suggest. The son calls at the post-office in
Canton to inquire if there is a letter from his father. He is told by
one official that there is no letter, that his father has not written
and could not write--could not communicate his mind by such a medium
at all, that it is only folly to think of such a thing. Another
official comes forward, and says, Yes; there is a letter here for you,
but you cannot possibly understand it; it is quite useless to you,
indeed it can only do you positive mischief inasmuch as you are quite
unable to read it aright. You must leave the letter in our hands, and
we will explain to you such portions of it as we consider suitable for
you. The former of these two officials represents Infidelity; the
latter, Superstition. By both alike would the son be deprived of the
longed-for letter--the precious communication from his father's heart.
But what, we may inquire, would be his answer to these unworthy
officials? A very brief and pointed one we may rest assured. He would
say to the first, I know my father can communicate his mind to me by
letter, and that he has done so. He would say to the second, I know my
father can make me understand his mind far better than you can. He
would say to both, and that, too, with bold and firm decision. Give me
up at once my father's letter; it is addressed to me, and no man has
any right to withhold it from me.
Thus, too, should the simple-hearted Christian meet the _insolence_ of
Infidelity and the _ignorance_ of Superstition--the two special
agencies of the devil, in this our day, in setting aside the precious
Word of God. "My Father has communicated His mind, and He can make me
understand the communication."--"All Scripture is given _by
inspiration of God_;" and, "Whatsoever things were written aforetime
were written _for our learning_." Magnificent answer to every enemy of
God's precious and peerless revelation, be he rationalist or
ritualist!
We do not attempt to offer any apology to the reader for this
lengthened introduction to the book of Deuteronomy. Indeed we are only
too thankful for an opportunity of bearing our feeble testimony to the
grand truth of the divine inspiration of the holy Scriptures. We feel
it to be our sacred duty, as most surely it is our high privilege, to
press upon all to whom we have access, the immense importance--yea,
the absolute necessity of the most uncompromising decision on this
point. We must faithfully maintain, at all cost, the divine authority,
and therefore the absolute supremacy and all-sufficiency, of the Word
of God at all times, in all places, for all purposes. We must hold to
it that the Scriptures, having been given of God, are complete, in the
very highest and fullest sense of the word; that they do not need any
human authority to accredit them, or any human voice to make them
available: they speak for themselves, and carry their own credentials
with them. All we have to do is to believe and obey, not to reason or
discuss. God has spoken it: it is ours to hearken, and yield an
unreserved and reverent obedience.
This is one grand leading point throughout the book of Deuteronomy, as
we shall see in the progress of our meditations; and never was there a
moment, in the history of the Church of God, in which it was more
needful to urge home on the human conscience the necessity of implicit
obedience to the Word of God. It is, alas! but little felt. Professing
Christians, for the most part, seem to consider that they have a right
to think for themselves--to follow their own reason, their own
judgment, or their own conscience. They do not believe that the Bible
is a divine and universal guide-book. They think there are very many
things in which we are left to choose for ourselves; hence the almost
numberless sects, parties, creeds, and schools of thought. If human
opinion be allowed at all, then, as a matter of course, one man has as
good a right to think as another; and thus it has come to pass that
the professing church has become a proverb and a by-word for division.
And what is the sovereign remedy for this widespread disease? Here it
is: _Absolute and complete subjection to the authority of holy
Scripture_. It is not men going to Scripture to get _their_ opinions
and _their_ views confirmed; but going to Scripture to get the mind of
God as to every thing, and bowing down their whole moral being to
divine authority. This is the one pressing need of the day in which
our lot is cast--reverent subjection, in all things, to the supreme
authority of the Word of God. No doubt, there will be variety in our
measure of intelligence, in our apprehension and appreciation of
Scripture; but what we specially urge upon all Christians is that
condition of soul, that attitude of heart expressed in those precious
words of the psalmist, "Thy Word have I hid in mine heart, that I
might not sin against Thee." This, we may rest assured, is grateful to
the heart of God. "To this man will I look, even to him that is poor
and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at My Word."
Here lies the true secret of moral security. Our knowledge of
Scripture may be very limited; but if our reverence for it be
profound, we shall be preserved from a thousand errors--a thousand
snares. And then there will be steady growth. We shall grow in the
knowledge of God, of Christ, and of the written Word; we shall delight
to draw from those living and exhaustless depths of holy Scripture,
and to range through those green pastures which infinite grace has so
freely thrown open to the flock of Christ. Thus shall the divine life
be nourished and strengthened; the Word of God will become more and
more precious to our souls, and we shall be lead, by the powerful
ministry of the Holy Ghost, into the depth, fullness, majesty, and
moral glory of holy Scripture. We shall be delivered completely from
the withering influences of all mere systems of theology, high, low,
or moderate--a most blessed deliverance! We shall be able to tell the
advocates of all the schools of divinity under the sun that whatever
elements of truth they may have in their systems we have in divine
perfectness in the Word of God; not twisted and tortured to make them
fit into a system, but in their right place in the wide circle of
divine revelation which has its eternal centre in the blessed Person
of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
CHAPTER I.
"These be the words which Moses spake unto all Israel on this side
Jordan in the wilderness, in the plain over against the Red Sea,
between Paran, and Tophel, and Laban, and Hazeroth, and Dizahab.
(There are eleven days' journey from Horeb, by the way of Mount Seir,
unto Kadesh-barnea.)"
The inspired writer is careful to give us, in the most precise manner,
all the bearings of the place in which the words of this book were
spoken in the ears of the people. Israel had not yet crossed the
Jordan; they were just beside it, and over against the Red Sea where
the mighty power of God had been so gloriously displayed nearly forty
years before. The whole position is described with a minuteness which
shows how thoroughly God entered into every thing that concerned His
people. He was interested in all their movements and in all their
ways. He kept a faithful record of all their encampments. Their was
not a single circumstance connected with them, however trifling,
beneath His gracious notice. He attended to every thing. His eye
rested continually on that assembly as a whole, and on each member in
particular. By day and by night He watched over them. Every stage of
their journey was under His immediate and most gracious
superintendence. There was nothing, however small, beneath His notice;
nothing, however great, beyond His power.
Thus it was with Israel in the wilderness of old, and thus it is with
the Church now--the Church as a whole, and each member in particular.
A Father's eye rests upon us continually, His everlasting arms are
around and underneath us day and night. "He withdraweth not His eyes
from the righteous." He counts the hairs of our heads, and enters,
with infinite goodness, into every thing that concerns us. He has
charged Himself with all our wants and all our cares. He would have us
to cast our every care on Him, in the sweet assurance that He careth
for us. He most graciously invites us to roll our every burden over on
Him, be it great or small.
All this is truly wonderful. It is full of deepest consolation. It is
eminently calculated to tranquilize the heart, come what may. The
question is, Do we believe it? are our hearts governed by the faith of
it? Do we really believe that the almighty Creator and Upholder of all
things, who bears up the pillars of the universe, has graciously
undertaken to do for us all the journey through? Do we thoroughly
believe that "the Possessor of heaven and earth" is our Father? and
that He has charged Himself with all our wants from first to last? Is
our whole moral being under the commanding power of those words of the
inspired apostle, "He that spared not His own Son, but delivered Him
up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all
things?" Alas! it is to be feared that we know but little of the power
of these grand yet simple truths. We talk about them, we discuss them,
we profess them, we give a nominal assent to them; but with all this,
we prove, in our daily life--in the actual details of our personal
history, how feebly we enter into them. If we truly believed that our
God has charged Himself with all our necessities--if we were finding
all our springs in Him--if He were a perfect covering for our eyes and
a resting-place for our hearts, could we possibly be looking to poor
creature-streams, which so speedily dry up and disappoint our hearts?
We do not and cannot believe it. It is one thing to hold the theory of
the life of faith, and another thing altogether to live that life. We
constantly deceive ourselves with the notion that we are living by
faith, when in reality we are leaning on some human prop, which sooner
or later is sure to give way.
Reader, is it not so? Are we not constantly prone to forsake the
Fountain of living waters, and hew out for ourselves broken cisterns,
which can hold no water? And yet we speak of living by faith! We
profess to be looking only to the living God for the supply of our
need, whatever that need may be, when, in point of fact, we are
sitting beside some creature-stream and looking for something there.
Need we wonder if we are disappointed? How could it possibly be
otherwise? Our God will not have us dependent upon aught or any one
but Himself. He has, in manifold places in His Word, given us His
judgment as to the true character and sure result of all
creature-confidence. Take the following most solemn passage from the
prophet Jeremiah: "Cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and maketh
flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the Lord. For he shall
be like the heath in the desert, and shall not see when good cometh;
but shall inhabit the parched places in the wilderness, in a salt land
and not inhabited." And then mark the contrast--"Blessed is the man
that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is: for he shall be
as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by
the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be
green; and shall not be careful in the year of drought, neither shall
cease from yielding fruit." (Jer. xvii. 5-8.)
Here we have, in language divinely forcible, clear, and beautiful, both
sides of this most weighty subject put before us. Creature-confidence
brings a certain curse; it can only issue in barrenness and
desolation. God, in very faithfulness, will cause every human stream
to dry up--every human prop to give way, in order that we may learn
the utter folly of turning away from Him. What figure could be more
striking or impressive than those used in the above passage?--"A heath
in the desert," "parched places in the wilderness," "a salt land not
inhabited." Such are the figures used by the Holy Ghost to illustrate
all mere human dependence--all confidence in man.
But on the other hand, what can be more lovely or more refreshing than
the figures used to set forth the deep blessedness of simple trust in
the Lord?--"A tree planted by the waters," "spreading out her roots by
the rivers," the leaf ever green, the fruit never ceasing. Perfectly
beautiful! Thus it is with the man who trusteth in the Lord, and whose
hope the Lord is. He is nourished by those eternal springs that flow
from the heart of God. He drinks at the Fountain, life-giving and
free. He finds all his resources in the living God. There may be
"heat," but he does not see it; "the year of drought" may come, but he
is not careful. Ten thousand creature-streams may dry up, but he does
not perceive it, because he is not dependent upon them; he abides hard
by the ever-gushing Fountain. He can never want any good thing. He
lives by faith.
And here, while speaking of the life of faith--that most blessed life,
let us clearly understand what it is, and carefully see that we are
living it. We sometimes hear this life spoken of in a way by no means
intelligent. It is not unfrequently applied to the mere matter of
trusting God for food and raiment. Certain persons who happen to have
no visible source of temporal supplies--no settled income--no property
of any kind, are singled out and spoken of as "living by faith," as if
that marvelous and glorious life had no higher sphere or wider range
than temporal things--the mere supply of our bodily wants.
Now, we cannot too strongly protest against this most unworthy view of
the life of faith. It limits its sphere and lowers its range in a
manner perfectly intolerable to any one who understands aught of its
most holy and precious mysteries. Can we for a moment admit that a
Christian who happens to have a settled income of any kind is to be
deprived of the privilege of living by faith? Or, further, can we
permit that life to be limited and lowered to the mere matter of
trusting God for the supply of our bodily wants? Does it soar no
higher than food and raiment? Does it give no more elevated thought of
God than that He will not let us starve or go naked?
Far away, and away forever, be the unworthy thought! The life of faith
must not be so treated. We cannot allow such a gross dishonor to be
offered to it, or such a grievous wrong done to those who are called
to live it. What, we would ask, is the meaning of those few but
weighty words, "The just shall live by faith"? They occur, first of
all, in Habakkuk ii. They are quoted by the apostle in Romans i, where
he is, with a master-hand, laying the solid foundations of
Christianity. He quotes them again in Galatians iii, where he is, with
intense anxiety, recalling those bewitched assemblies to those solid
foundations which they, in their folly, were abandoning. Finally, he
quotes them again in chapter x. of his epistle to the Hebrews, where
he is warning his brethren against the danger of casting away their
confidence and giving up the race.
From all this we may assuredly gather the immense importance and
practical value of the brief but far-reaching sentence, "The just
shall live by faith." But to whom does it apply? Is it only for a few
of the Lord's servants, here and there, who happen to have no settled
income? We utterly reject the thought. It applies to every one of the
Lord's people. It is the high and happy privilege of all who come
under the title--that blessed title, "The just." We consider it a very
grave error to limit it in any way. The moral effect of such
limitation is most injurious. It gives undue prominence to one
department of the life of faith which, if any distinction be
allowable, we should judge to be the very lowest. But in reality,
there should be no distinction: the life of faith is one. Faith is the
grand principle of the divine life from first to last. By faith we are
justified, and by faith we live; by faith we stand, and by faith we
walk. From the starting-post to the goal of the Christian course it is
all by faith.
Hence, therefore, it is a serious mistake to single out certain
persons who trust the Lord for temporal supplies, and speak of them as
living by faith, as if they alone did so. And not only so, but such
persons are held up to the gaze of the Church of God as something
wonderful; and the great mass of Christians are led to think that the
privilege of living by faith lies entirely beyond their range. In
short, they are led into a complete mistake as to the real character
and sphere of the life of faith, and thus they suffer materially in
the inner life.
Let the Christian reader, then, distinctly understand that it is his
happy privilege, whoever he be or whatever be his position, to live a
life of faith, in all the depth and fullness of that word. He may,
according to his measure, take up the language of the blessed apostle,
and say, "The life that I live in the flesh, I live by the faith of
the Son of God, who loved me, and gave Himself for me." Let nothing
rob him of this high and holy privilege which belongs to every member
of the household of faith. Alas! we fail. Our faith is weak, when it
ought to be strong, bold, and vigorous. Our God delights in a bold
faith. If we study the gospels, we shall see that nothing so refreshed
and delighted the heart of Christ as a fine bold faith--a faith that
understood Him and drew largely upon Him. Look, for example, at the
Syrophenician in Mark vii, and the centurion in Luke vii.
True, He could meet a weak faith--the very weakest. He could meet an
"If Thou _wilt_" with a gracious "I will"--an "If Thou _canst_" with
"If thou canst believe, all things are possible." The faintest look,
the feeblest touch, was sure to meet with a gracious response; but the
Saviour's heart was gratified and His spirit refreshed when He could
say, "O woman, great is thy faith; be it unto thee even as thou wilt;"
and again, "I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel."
Let us remember this. We may rest assured it is the very same to-day
as when our blessed Lord was here amongst men. He loves to be trusted,
to be used, to be drawn upon. We can never go too far in counting on
the love of His heart or the strength of His hand. There is nothing
too small, nothing too great for Him; He has all power in heaven and
on earth; He is head over all things to His Church; He holds the
universe together; He upholds all things by the word of His power.
Philosophers talk of the forces and laws of nature: the Christian
thinks with delight of Christ, His hand, His Word, His mighty power.
By Him all things were created, and by Him all things consist.
And then His love! What rest, what comfort, what joy, to know and
remember that the almighty Creator and Upholder of the universe is the
everlasting Lover of our souls! that He loves us perfectly; that His
eye is ever upon us, His heart ever toward us; that He has charged
Himself with all our wants, whatever these wants may be--whether
physical, mental, or spiritual! There is not a single thing within the
entire range of our necessities that is not treasured up for us in
Christ. He is Heaven's treasury--God's storehouse, and all this for
us.
Why, then, should we ever turn to another? Why should we ever,
directly or indirectly, make known our wants to a poor fellow-mortal?
Why not go straight to Jesus? Do we want sympathy? Who can sympathize
with us like our most merciful High-Priest, who is touched with the
feeling of our infirmities? Do we want help of any kind? Who can help
us like our almighty Friend, the Possessor of unsearchable riches? Do
we want counsel or guidance? Who can give it like the blessed One who
is the very wisdom of God, and who is made of God unto us wisdom? Oh,
let us not wound His loving heart, and dishonor His glorious name by
turning away from Him. Let us jealously watch against the tendency so
natural to us to cherish human hopes, creature-confidences, and
earthly expectations. Let us abide hard by the Fountain, and we shall
never have to complain of the streams. In a word, let us seek to live
by faith, and thus glorify God in our day and generation.
We shall now proceed with our chapter; and in so doing, we would call
the reader's attention to verse 2. It is certainly a very remarkable
parenthesis. "(There are eleven days' journey from Horeb, by the way
of Mount Seir, unto Kadesh-barnea.)" Eleven days! and yet it took them
forty years! How was this? Alas! we need not travel far for the
answer. It is only too like ourselves. How slowly we get over the
ground! What windings and turnings! How often we have to go back and
travel over the same ground again and again! We are slow travelers,
because we are slow learners. It may be we feel disposed to marvel how
Israel could have taken forty years to accomplish a journey of eleven
days; but we may, with much greater reason, marvel at ourselves. We,
like them, are kept back by our unbelief and slowness of heart; but
there is far less excuse for us than for them, inasmuch as our
privileges are so very much higher.
Some of us have much reason to be ashamed of the time we spend over
our lessons. The words of the blessed apostle do but too forcibly
apply to us--"For when for the time ye ought to be teachers, ye have
need that one teach you again which be the first principles of the
oracles of God; and are become such as have need of milk, and not of
strong meat." Our God is a faithful and wise as well as a gracious and
patient Teacher. He will not permit us to pass cursorily over our
lessons. Sometimes, perhaps, we think we have mastered a lesson, and
we attempt to move on to another; but our wise Teacher knows better,
and He sees the need of deeper ploughing. He will not have us mere
theorists or smatterers: He will keep us, if need be, year after year
at our scales until we learn to sing.
Now, while it is very humbling to us to be so slow in learning, it is
very gracious of Him to take such pains with us, in order to make us
sure. We have to bless Him for His mode of teaching as for all
beside--for the wonderful patience with which He sits down with us
over the same lesson again and again, in order that we may learn it
thoroughly.[3]
[3] The journey of Israel from Horeb to Kadesh-barnea illustrates but
too forcibly the history of many souls in the matter of finding peace.
Many of the Lord's beloved people go on for years, doubting and
fearing, never knowing the blessedness of the liberty wherewith Christ
makes His people free. It is most distressing, to any one who really
cares for souls, to see the sad condition in which some are kept all
their days, through legality, bad teaching, false manuals of devotion,
and such like. It is a rare thing now-a-days to find in christendom a
soul fully established in the peace of the gospel. It is considered a
good thing--a sign of humility--to be always doubting. Confidence is
looked upon as presumption. In short, things are turned completely
upside down. The gospel is not known: souls are under law instead of
under grace,--they are kept at a distance instead of being taught to
draw nigh. Much of the religion of the day is a deplorable mixture of
Christ and self, law and grace, faith and works. Souls are kept in a
perfect muddle all their days.
Surely these things demand the grave consideration of all who occupy
the responsible place of teachers and preachers in the professing
church. There is a solemn day approaching, when all such will be
called to render an account of their ministry.
"And it came to pass in the fortieth year, in the eleventh month, on
the first day of the month, that Moses spake unto the children of
Israel, according unto all that the Lord had given him in commandment
unto them." (Ver. 3.) These few words contain a volume of weighty
instruction for every servant of God--for all who are called to
minister in the Word and doctrine. Moses gave the people just what he
himself had received from God--nothing more, nothing less. He brought
them into direct contact with the living Word of Jehovah. This is the
grand principle of ministry at all times. Nothing else is of any real
value. The Word of God is the only thing that will stand. There is
divine power and authority in it. All mere human teaching, however
interesting--however attractive at the time, will pass away and leave
the soul without any foundation to rest upon.
Hence it should be the earnest, jealous care of all who minister in
the assembly of God, to preach the Word in all its purity, in all its
simplicity; to give it to the people as they get it from God; to bring
them face to face with the veritable language of holy Scripture. Thus
will their ministry tell, with living power, on the hearts and
consciences of their hearers. It will link the soul with God Himself,
by means of the Word, and impart a depth and solidity which no human
teaching can ever produce.
Look at the blessed apostle Paul. Hear him express himself on this
weighty subject.--"And I, brethren, when I came to you, came not with
excellency of speech or of wisdom, declaring unto you the testimony of
God. For I determined not to know any thing among you, save Jesus
Christ, and Him crucified. And I was with you in weakness, and in
fear, and in much trembling. And my speech and my preaching was not
with enticing words of man's wisdom, but in demonstration of the
Spirit and of power." What was the object of all this fear and
trembling? "That your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but
in the power of God." (1 Cor. ii. 1-5.)
This true-hearted faithful servant of Christ sought only to bring the
souls of his hearers into direct personal contact with God Himself. He
sought not to link them with Paul. "Who then is Paul, and who is
Apollos, but ministers _by whom ye believed_?" All false ministry has
for its object the attaching of souls to itself. Thus the minister is
exalted, God is shut out, and the soul left without any divine
foundation to rest upon. True ministry, on the contrary, as seen in
Paul and Moses, has for its blessed object the attaching of the soul
to God. Thus the minister gets his true place--simply an instrument,
God is exalted, and the soul established on a sure foundation which
can never be moved.
But let us hear a little more from our apostle on this most weighty
subject. "Moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I
preached unto you, which also ye have received, and wherein ye stand;
by which also ye are saved, if ye keep in memory what I preached unto
you, unless ye have believed in vain. _For I delivered unto you first
of all that which I also received_"--nothing more, nothing less,
nothing different--"how that Christ died for our sins _according to
the Scriptures_; and that He was buried, and that He rose again the
third day _according to the Scriptures_."
This is uncommonly fine. It demands the serious consideration of all
who would be true and effective ministers of Christ. The apostle was
careful to allow the pure stream to flow down from its living
source--the heart of God, into the souls of the Corinthians. He felt
that nothing else was of any value. If he had sought to link them on
to himself, he would have sadly dishonored his Master, done them a
grievous wrong, and he himself would most assuredly suffer loss in the
day of Christ.
But no; Paul knew better. He would not, for worlds, lead any to build
upon himself. Hear what he says to his much-loved Thessalonians.--"For
this cause also thank we God without ceasing, because, when _ye
received the Word of God_ which ye heard of us, ye received it _not as
the word of men_, but _as it is in truth, the Word of God_, which
effectually worketh also in you that believe." (1 Thess. ii. 13.)
We feel solemnly responsible to commend this grave and important point
to the serious consideration of the Church of God. If all the
professed ministers of Christ were to follow the example of Moses and
Paul, in reference to the matter now before us, we should witness a
very different condition of things in the professing church. But the
plain and serious fact is, that the Church of God, like Israel of old,
has wholly departed from the authority of His Word. Go where you will,
and you find things done and taught which have no foundation in
Scripture. Things are not only tolerated but sanctioned and stoutly
defended which are in direct opposition to the mind of Christ. If you
ask for the divine authority for this, that, and the other institution
or practice, you will be told that Christ has not given us directions
as to matters of church government; that in all questions of
ecclesiastical polity, clerical orders, and liturgical services, He
has left us free to act according to our consciences, judgment, or
religious feelings; that it is simply absurd to demand a "Thus saith
the Lord" for all the details connected with our religious
institutions: there is a broad margin left to be filled up according
to our national customs and our peculiar habits of thought. It is
considered that professing Christians are left perfectly free to form
themselves into so-called churches, to choose their own form of
government, to make their own arrangements, and to appoint their own
office-bearers.
Now the question which the Christian reader has to consider is, "Are
these things so?" Can it be that our Lord Christ has left His Church
without guidance as to matters so interesting and momentous? Can it be
possible that the Church of God is worse off, in the matter of
instruction and authority, than Israel? In our studies on the books of
Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers, we have seen (for who could help
seeing?) the marvelous pains which Jehovah took to instruct His people
as to the most minute particulars connected with their public worship
and private life. As to the tabernacle, the temple, the priesthood,
the ritual, the various feasts and sacrifices, the periodical
solemnities, the months, the days, the very hours, all was ordered and
settled with divine precision. Nothing was left to mere human
arrangement. Man's wisdom, his judgment, his reason, his conscience,
had nothing whatever to do in the matter. Had it been left to man, how
should we ever have had that admirable, profound, and far-reaching
typical system which the inspired pen of Moses has set before us? If
Israel had been allowed to do what (as some would fain persuade us)
the Church is allowed, what confusion, what strife, what division,
what endless sects and parties, would have been the inevitable result!
But it was not so. The Word of God settled every thing. "As the Lord
commanded Moses." This grand and influential sentence was appended to
every thing that Israel had to do, and to every thing they were not to
do. Their national institutions and their domestic habits--their
public and their private life, all came under the commanding authority
of "Thus saith the Lord." There was no occasion for any member of the
congregation to say, I cannot see this, or, I cannot go with that, or,
I cannot agree with the other. Such language could only be regarded as
the fruit of self-will. He might just as well say, I cannot agree with
Jehovah. And why? Simply because the Word of God had spoken as to
every thing, and that, too, with a clearness and simplicity which left
no room whatever for human discussion. Throughout the whole of the
Mosaic economy there was not the breadth of a hair of margin left in
which to insert the opinion or the judgment of man. It pertained not
to man to add the weight of a feather to that vast system of types and
shadows which had been planned by the divine mind, and set forth in
language so plain and pointed, that all Israel had to do was to
_obey_--not to argue, not to reason, not to discuss, but to obey.
Alas! alas! they failed, as we know. They did their own will; they
took their own way; they did "every man that which was right in his
own eyes." They departed from the Word of God, and
|
have been made towards
the middle of the year preceding, and shortly after the return of
Chamilly to France. The Letters were evidently shown by their possessor
as one of those trophies, or at least souvenirs, which persons are
accustomed to bring back with them from a foreign country.[19] The
incognito, however, was complete, and neither the name of their
recipient nor that of their translator was inscribed on this _editio
princeps_. That of Marianna, indeed, the authoress, was not known until
early in this present century, when in 1810 Boissonade discovered her
name written in a copy of the edition of 1669 by a contemporary hand.
The veracity of this note has since been placed beyond doubt by the
recent researches of Senhor Cordeiro, who has shown the persistence of
a tradition in Beja connecting the French captain and the Portuguese
nun.
The success of the first edition was rapid and complete. A second by
Barbin, and two in foreign countries, one in Amsterdam, the other
in Cologne, all in the same year, attest this. The success, indeed,
took such proportions, that from the mutual rivalry of authors and
publishers there sprung up a new kind of literature, that of ‘les
Portugaises.’ The Five Letters of the nun had followers like most
successful romances, and the title of ‘Portuguese Letters’ became
a generic name applying not only to the imitations which amplified
subsequent editions, but also to every kind of correspondence where
passion was shown _toute nue_.[20]
‘Brancas,’ says Mme. de Sévigné, ‘has written me a letter so
excessively tender as to make up for all his past neglect. He speaks to
me from his heart in every line; if I were to reply to him in the same
tone, _ce seroit une Portugaise_.’[21]
In the same year, 1669, Barbin issued a ‘second part’ of the Portuguese
Letters, which was counterfeited shortly afterwards at Cologne, as the
real ones had been. This was written, we are told in the preface, by a
_femme du monde_, and its publication was suggested by the favour with
which the letters of the nun had been received.
The publisher counted, as he said, on the difference of style which
distinguished these fresh letters from the original ones, to assure a
success as great as the first five had obtained.
After the second part came the so-called ‘Replies,’ all in the same
year, and their publisher tells us in the preface that ‘he is assured
that the gentleman who wrote them has returned to Portugal.’ Shortly
afterwards appeared the ‘New Replies,’ but this time they were given
for what they were, ‘a _jeu d’esprit_ for which the example of Aulus
Salinus writing replies to the Heroides of Ovid, and, above all, the
beauty of the first Portuguese Letters, should serve as an excuse.’[22]
The motive, then, for the production of the second part of the
‘Portuguese Letters’ as for that of the ‘New Replies’ is satisfactorily
explained, but how about the ‘Replies’ themselves? Can we not account
for them by supposing that it was felt necessary on the part of the
friends of Chamilly to attenuate the sympathy expressed on all sides
for the unfortunate nun, and the censure which must naturally have
followed such a base betrayal? Hence, proceeds Senhor Cordeiro, the
author of this suggestion, the publication of these Replies, whose
capital idea is to show us the seducer of Marianna under a perfectly
different aspect and character from that which readers of the Letters
would naturally attribute to him. However this may be, it was not long
before the name of their hero came to be printed in editions of the
Letters, though, curiously enough, it was first divulged in an edition
printed abroad--in Cologne--in 1669, a copy of which is to be found in
the British Museum, marked 1085 _b._ 5 (2), containing the following:--
‘The name of him to whom they (the Letters) were written is the
Chevalier de Chamilly, and the name of him who made the translation is
Cuilleraque.’[23]
More strange still, the French editions of the Letters preserved a
discreet silence as to the name of the recipient with the exception of
the 1671 edition of the Replies, until the year 1690, when a similar
notice to that above referred to as being in the Cologne edition was
made public; so that even in Chamilly’s lifetime his name was appended
to editions of the Letters as their recipient, and as far as we know he
never denied the authenticity of the ascription.
* * * * *
The question as to whether the Letters were originally written in
French, or whether they are a translation, hardly needs discussion
here, for the principal critics, both French and Portuguese--Dorat,
Malherbe, Filinto Elysio and Sousa Botelho--have unanimously decided
from the text itself that they are a translation, and a bad one.
The last-named says:--‘A Portuguese, or indeed any one knowing that
language, cannot doubt but that the Five Letters of the Nun have
been translated almost literally from a Portuguese original. The
construction of many of the phrases is such that, if re-translated
word for word, they are found to be entirely in harmony with the genius
and character of that language.’[24]
But it is just this baldness for which we should all be truly thankful,
because we are thus enabled to listen to what Marianna said, and hear
how she said it. Had the translation been what the seventeenth century
would have called a good one, we should have known M. Guilleragues well
enough, it is true, but only seen the nun ‘darkly as through a glass.’
* * * * *
As to the present version, the author can only add to what he has
already said in the Preface, by confessing that he feels its inadequacy
as much as any of his critics will doubtless do. At the same time,
however, if its result be to excite competition, and call forth a
better one, his labour will not, he thinks, have been in vain.
LETTERS
She only said, ‘My life is dreary,
He cometh not,’ she said;
She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!’
_Mariana._--TENNYSON.
FIRST LETTER
Meu amigo verdadeiro, quem me vos levou tão longe?... Como vós vos
fostes, tudo se tornou tristeza; nem parece ainda, senão que estava
espreitando já que vos fosseis.
BERNARDIM RIBEIRO, _Saudades_, cap. i.
Do but think, my love, how much thou wert wanting in foresight. Ah!
unfortunate, thou wert betrayed, and thou didst betray me with illusive
hopes. A passion on which thou didst rest so many prospects of pleasure
now only causes thee a deadly despair, which is like nothing else
but the cruelty of the absence which occasions it. What! must this
absence, to which my sorrow, all ingenious though it be, cannot give
a sad enough name, deprive me for ever of a sight of those eyes in
which I was wont to see so much love, which made me feel so full of
joy, which took the place of all else to me, and which, in a word,
were all that I desired? Mine eyes, alas! have lost the only light
that gave them life, tears alone are left them, and ceaseless weeping
is the sole employment I have given them since I learned that you were
bent upon a separation so unbearable to me that it must soon bring
about my death. But yet it seems to me that I cling in some sort to
the sorrows of which you are the sole cause. I consecrated my life
to you from the moment when I first saw you, and I feel a certain
pleasure in sacrificing it to you. I send you my sighs a thousand
times each day, they seek you everywhere, and as sole recompense of so
much disquietude they bring me back a warning too true, alas, of my
unhappiness: an unhappiness which is cruel enough to prevent me from
flattering myself with hope, and which is ever calling to me--Cease,
cease to wear thyself out in vain, ill-fated Marianna, cease looking
for a lover whom thou wilt never see again, who has crossed the seas
to fly from thee, who is now in France in the midst of pleasures, who
is not thinking for one moment on thy sorrows, who would not thank
thee for these pangs for which he feels no gratitude. But no, I cannot
make up my mind to think so ill of you, and I am too much concerned
that you should right yourself. I do not even wish to think that you
have forgotten me. Am I not unhappy enough already without torturing
myself with false suspicions? And why should I try so hard to forget
all the care you took to prove your love for me? I was so enchanted
with it all that I should be ungrateful indeed were I not still to love
you with the same transports that my passion lent me when I enjoyed
the pledges of your love. How can the memory of moments so sweet have
become so bitter? And, contrary to their nature, must they serve only
to tyrannise over my heart? Alas, poor heart! your last letter brought
it into a strange state; it endured such strong pangs that it seemed
to be trying to tear itself from me to go and seek for you. I was so
overcome by all these violent emotions that I was beside myself for
more than three hours.[25] It was as though I refused to come back to a
life which I feel bound to lose for you since I cannot preserve it for
you. In spite of myself, however, I became myself again; I flattered
myself with the feeling that I was dying of love, and besides, I was
well pleased at the thought of being no longer obliged to see my heart
torn by grief at your absence. Ever since those first symptoms I have
suffered much from ill-health, but can I ever be well again until I
see you? And yet I am bearing it without a murmur since it comes from
you. What! is this the reward you give me for loving you so tenderly?
But it matters not; I am resolved to adore you all my life and to care
for no one else, and I tell you that you too will do well to love no
other. Could you ever content yourself with a love colder than mine?
You will perhaps find more beauty elsewhere (yet you told me once that
I was very beautiful), but you will never find so much love: and all
the rest is nothing. Do not fill any more of your letters with trifles:
and do not write and tell me again to remember you. I cannot forget
you, and as little do I forget the hope you gave me that you would come
and spend some time with me. Alas! why are you not willing to pass your
whole life at my side? Could I leave this unhappy cloister I should
not await in Portugal the fulfilment of your promises. I should go
fearlessly over the whole world seeking you, following you, and loving
you. I dare not flatter myself that this can be. I do not care to feed
a hope that would certainly give me some pleasure, while I wish to
feel nothing but sorrow. Yet I confess the chance of writing to you
which my brother gave me suddenly aroused in me a certain feeling of
joy, and checked for a time the despair in which I live. I conjure you
to tell me why you set yourself to bewitch me as you did, when you well
knew that you would have to forsake me. Why were you so bent on making
me unhappy? Why did you not leave me at peace in my cloister? Had I
done you any wrong? But I ask your pardon. I am not accusing you. I am
not in a state to think on vengeance, and I only blame the harshness of
my fate. It seems to me that in separating us it has done us all the
harm that we could fear from it. It will not succeed in separating our
hearts,--for love, more powerful than it, has united them for ever. If
you take any interest in my lot write to me often. I well deserve your
taking some pains to let me know the state of your heart and fortune.
Above all, come and see me. Good-bye. I cannot make up my mind to part
from this letter. It will fall into your hands: would I might have
the same happiness! Ah, how foolish I am! I know so well that this is
impossible. Good-bye. I can no more. Good-bye. Love me always and make
me suffer still more.
SECOND LETTER[26]
Das tristezas, não se pôde contar náda ordenadamente, porque
desordenadamente acontescem ellas.
BERNARDIM RIBEIRO, _Saudades_, cap. i.
Your lieutenant has just told me that a storm has forced you to put
into port in the Algarve.[27] I am afraid you have suffered much on
the sea, and so much has this fear absorbed me that I have thought no
more on all my troubles. Do you think, perchance, that your lieutenant
takes more interest in what happens to you than I do? If not, why then
is he better informed of it? And then, why have you not written to
me? I am unlucky indeed if you have found no time for writing since
you left, and still more so if you could have written and would not.
Your injustice and ingratitude are too great; but I should be in
despair if they were to cause you any harm. I had rather you should
remain unpunished than that they should avenge me. I withstand all
the appearances which ought to persuade me that you do not love me
at all, and I feel much more disposed to yield myself blindly to my
passion than to the reasons you give me to complain of your neglect.
What mortification you would have spared me, if, in the days when I
first saw you, your conduct had been as cold as it has seemed to me
for some time now! But who would not have been deceived by such ardour
as you then showed, and who would not have thought it sincere? How
hard it is to make up one’s mind to doubt for any time the sincerity
of those one loves! I see clearly that the least excuse is good enough
for you; and, without your troubling to make it to me, my love for you
serves you so faithfully that I cannot consent to find you guilty,
except for the sake of enjoying the infinite pleasure of declaring you
guiltless myself. You overcame me by your assiduities, you kindled
my passions with your transports, your tenderness fascinated me, your
vows persuaded me, but it was the violence of my own love which led
me away; and this beginning at once so sweet and so happy, has left
nothing behind it but tears, sighs, and a wretched death, without
the possibility of my ministering any relief to myself. It is true
that in loving you I enjoyed a pleasure unthought of before, but this
very pleasure is now costing me a sorrow, which once I knew nothing
of. All the emotions which you cause me run to extremes. If I had
shown obstinacy in resisting your love, if I had given you any motive
for anger or jealousy in order to draw you on the more, if you had
detected any artifice in my conduct, if, in a word, I had wished to
oppose my reason to the natural inclination I felt for you, and which
you soon made me perceive (though doubtless my efforts would have been
useless), you might then have punished me severely and used your power
over me with some show of justice. But you seemed to me worthy of my
love before you had told me that you loved me: you gave evidence of
a great passion for me: I was overjoyed at it, and I gave myself up
to love you to distraction. You were not blinded as I was. Why then
did you let me fall into the state in which I now am? What did you
want with all my raptures, which must have been very troublesome to
you? You well knew that you would not stay in Portugal for ever. Then
why did you single me out to make me so unhappy? Doubtless you might,
in this country, have found some woman more beautiful than I am, one
with whom you could have enjoyed as much pleasure,--since in this you
only sought the grosser kind--one who would have loved you faithfully
as long as you were with her, whom time would have consoled for your
absence, and whom you might have left without either treachery or
cruelty. You act more like a tyrant bent on persecution than a lover
whose only thought should be how to please. Alas! why do you treat
so harshly a heart which is yours? I can see very well that you let
yourself be turned against me as easily as I let myself be convinced
in your favour. Without needing to call on all my love, and without
imagining that I had done anything out of the way, I should have
resisted much stronger arguments than those can be which have moved you
to leave me. They would have seemed to me very weak, and none could
have been strong enough to tear me from your side. But you were ready
to make use of the first pretexts that you found in order to get back
to France. A vessel was sailing. Why did you not let it sail? Your
family had written to you. Surely you know all the persecutions which
I have suffered from mine? Your honour obliged you to abandon me. Did
I take any care of mine? You were forced to go and serve your king. If
all they say of him is true he has no need of your help, and would have
excused you. I should have been only too happy if we could have passed
our whole lives together, but since it was fated that a cruel absence
should separate us, I think I ought to be glad indeed at the thought
of not having been faithless, and I would not wish to have committed
such a base act for anything in the world. What! you who have known
the depths of my heart and affection, could you make up your mind to
leave me for ever and expose me to the dread of feeling that you only
remember me in order to sacrifice me to some new passion?
I well know that I love you as one distracted. Withal I do not complain
of all the violence of my heart’s emotions; I am accustoming myself
to its tortures, and I could not live without the pleasure which I
find and enjoy in loving you in the midst of a thousand sorrows. But
a disgust and hatred for everything torments me constantly; I feel
my family, my friends, and this convent unbearable. All I am forced
to see and everything I am obliged to do is hateful to me. I have
grown so jealous of my passion that methinks all my actions and all
my duties have regard to you. Yes, I have scruples in not employing
every moment of my life for you. Ah! what should I do without the
extremities of hate and love which fill my heart? Could I survive that
which incessantly fills my thoughts, and lead a quiet cold life? Such a
void, and such a lack of feeling, could never suit me. All have noticed
how completely I am changed in my humour, my manners, and my person.
My mother[28] spoke to me about it, sharply at first, but afterwards
more kindly. I know not what I said in reply. I think I confessed all
to her. Even the strictest religious pity my condition, and are moved
by a certain consideration and regard for me. Every one, in fact, is
touched by my love: and you alone remain profoundly indifferent. You
write me letters at once cold and full of repetitions; the paper is not
half filled, and you make it quite clear that you are dying to finish
them.
Dona Brites has been importuning me for several days to get me to leave
my room, and thinking to divert me she took me for a walk upon the
balcony, from which one sees the gates of Mertola.[29] I went with her,
but at once cruel memories assailed me, and these made me weep for the
rest of the day. She brought me back to my room, and there I threw
myself on the bed and thought a thousand times on the little hope I
have of ever being well again. What is done to alleviate only embitters
my grief, and I find in the very remedies themselves particular reasons
for fresh sorrows. It was from that spot that I often saw you pass by
with that air which charmed me so, and I was up on that balcony on
the fatal day when I began to feel the first effects of my unhappy
passion. Methought you were wishing to please me, although as yet you
did not know me. I persuaded myself that you singled me out among all
my companions. When you paused I thought you were pleased for me to
see you better and admire your skill and grace whilst you caracoled
your horse. A sudden fright came over me when you made it go over some
difficult place. In a word, I interested myself secretly in every act
of yours. I felt quite sure you were not indifferent to me, and I took
as meant for me all that you did. You know too well what came of all
this; and although I have nothing to hide, I ought not to write to you
so much about it, lest I make you more guilty than you are already,
if that be possible, and lest I have to reproach myself with so many
useless efforts to oblige you to be faithful. This you will never be.
Can I ever hope that my letters and reproaches will have an effect on
your ingratitude that my love for you and your desertion of me have
not had? I know my sad fate too well: your injustice leaves me not the
slightest reason to doubt of it, and I am bound to fear the worst,
since you have cast me off. Have you a charm only for me, and do not
other eyes find you pleasing? I should not be annoyed, I think, were
the feelings of others in some sort to justify mine, and I would wish
all the women in France to find you agreeable, but none to love you,
none please you. This idea is ridiculous and impossible I well know.
I have already, however, found by experience that you are incapable
of a great affection, and that you could easily forget me without any
help, and without a fresh love obliging you to it. I would, perhaps,
wish you to have some reasonable pretext for your desertion of me.
It is true that I should then be more unhappy, but you would not be
so guilty. You mean to stay in France, I perceive, without great
enjoyments, may be, but in the possession of full liberty. The fatigue
of a long voyage, some punctilios of good manners, and the fear of not
being able to correspond to my ardent passion, keep you there. Oh do
not be afraid of me; I will be content with seeing you from time to
time, and knowing only that we are in the same country; but perhaps I
flatter myself, and may be you will be more touched by the rigour and
hardness of another woman than you have been by all my favours. Can it
be that cruelty will inflame you more?
But before engaging yourself in any great passion, think well on
the excess of my sorrows, on the uncertainty of my purposes, on the
contradictions in my emotions, on the extravagance of my letters, on
my trustfulness, my despair, my desires, and my jealousy. Oh! you are
on the way to make yourself unhappy. I conjure you to profit by my
example, that at least what I am suffering for you may not be useless
to you. Five or six months ago you told me a secret which troubled me,
and acknowledged, only too frankly, that you had once loved a lady in
your own country. If it is she who prevents you from returning here,
do not scruple to tell me, that I may fret no more. I am borne up by
some remnants of hope still, but I should be well pleased, if it can
have no good result, to lose it at a blow, and myself with it. Send
me her likeness and some one of her letters, and write me all she
says. Perchance I shall find reasons wherewith to console myself, or
it may be to afflict myself still more. I cannot remain any longer in
my present state, and any change whatsoever must be to my advantage.
I should also like to have the portrait of your brother and of your
sister-in-law.[30] All that concerns you is very dear to me, and I am
wholly given up to what touches you in any way: I have no inclination
of my own left. Sometimes, methinks, I could even submit to wait upon
her whom you love. Your bad treatment and disdain have broken me down
so far that at times I do not dare to think I could be jealous and yet
not displease you, and I go so far as to think that I should be doing
the greatest wrong in the world were I to upbraid you. I am often
convinced that I ought not to let you see, so madly as I do, feelings
which you disown. An officer has now been waiting long for this letter.
I had resolved to write it in such a way that you might receive it
without annoyance, but as it is, it is too extravagant, and I must
close it. Alas! I cannot bring myself to this. I seem to be speaking
to you whilst I write, and you seem to be more present to me. The
next[31] letter shall neither be so long nor so troublesome; you may
open and read it assured of this. It is true that I ought not to speak
of a passion which displeases you, and I will not speak of it again.
In a few days it will be a year since I gave myself up to you without
reserve. Your love seemed to me very warm and sincere, and I should
never have thought that my favours would so annoy you as to oblige
you to voyage five hundred leagues and expose yourself to the risk of
shipwreck to escape from them. I have not deserved such treatment as
this at any man’s hands. You may remember my modesty, my shame, and my
confusion, but you do not remember what would make you love me in spite
of yourself. The officer who is to carry you this letter sends to me
for the fourth time to say that he wishes to be gone. How pressing he
is! doubtless he is leaving some unhappy lady in this country.
Good-bye. It costs me more to finish this letter than it cost you to
quit me, perhaps for ever. Good-bye. I do not dare give you a thousand
names of love, nor abandon myself to all my feelings without restraint.
I love you a thousand times more than my life, and a thousand times
more than I think for. How dear you are to me, and yet how cruel! You
do not write to me. I could not help saying this to you again. But I
am beginning afresh, and the officer will be gone. What matters it?
Let him go. ’Tis not so much for your sake that I write as for my own.
I only seek some solace. Besides, the very length of my letter will
frighten you, and you will not read it. What have I done to be so
unhappy? And why have you poisoned my life? Why was I not born in some
other country? Good-bye, and forgive me. I dare not now pray you to
love me. See to what my fate has brought me. Good-bye!
THIRD LETTER
... Que este pequeno penhor de meus longos suspiros vá ante
os seus olhos. Muitas outras cousas desejo, mas esta me seria
assaz.’--BERNARDIM RIBEIRO, _Saudades_, cap. i.
What will become of me, and what would you have me do? How far I am now
from all that I had looked forward to! I hoped that you would write me
from every place you passed through, and that your letters would be
very long ones,--that you would feed my love by the hope of seeing
you again, that full trust in your fidelity would give me some sort of
rest, and that I should then remain in a state bearable enough, and
without the extremes of sorrow. I had even thought of some poor plans
of endeavouring, as far as possible, my own cure, in case I could but
once assure myself that you had entirely forgotten me. The distance
which you are at, certain impulses of devotion, the fear of entirely
destroying the remainder of my health by so many wakeful nights and
so many cares, the improbability of your return, the coldness of your
love, and your last good-byes, your departure based on such cruel
pretexts, and a thousand other reasons which are only too good and
too useless, seemed to offer me a safe refuge if I needed one. Having
indeed only myself to reckon with, I could never have been on my guard
against all my weaknesses, nor foresee all that I now suffer. Ah! how
pitiful it is for me,--I that am not able to share with you my sorrows,
and must be all alone in my grief! This thought is killing me, and I
almost die of horror when I think that you were never really affected
by all the bliss that we shared. Yes, I understand now the untruth of
all your transports. You betrayed me every time you told me that your
supreme delight was to be alone with me. It is to my importunities
alone that I owe your warmth and passion. Deliberately and in cold
blood you formed a design to kindle my love; you only regarded my
passion as your triumph, and your heart was never deeply touched. Are
you not very wretched? and have you so little delicacy that you made no
other use of my love but this?
How then can it be that with such love I have not been able to make
you entirely happy? It is solely for love of you that I regret the
infinite pleasures you have lost. Can it be that you did not care to
enjoy them? Ah! if you only knew them you would doubtless find them
much greater than that of having deceived me, and you would have
experienced how much happier it is, and how much more poignant it is
to love violently than to be loved. I know not what I am, or what I do,
or what I wish for. I am torn asunder by a thousand contrary emotions.
Can a more deplorable state be imagined? I love you to distraction,
and therefore I spare you sufficiently not to dare to wish that the
same emotions should trouble you. I should kill myself or die of grief
without were I to be assured that you were never having any rest, that
your life was as anxious and disturbed as mine, that you were weeping
ceaselessly, and that everything was hateful to you. I cannot bear my
own sufferings, how then could I support the sorrow a thousand times
more grievous which yours would give me? I cannot, on the other hand,
make up my mind to wish that you should think no more of me; and to
speak frankly, I am furiously jealous of all that gives you pleasure,
and comes near to your heart and fancy in France. I know not why I
write to you. I perceive that you will only pity me, and I wish for
none of your pity. I hate myself when I look back on all that I have
sacrificed for you. I have lost my honour. I have exposed myself to the
anger of my parents, to all the severity of the laws of this country
against religious, and finally to your ingratitude, which has seemed
to me the greatest of all my evils. Withal, I feel that my remorse
is not real, and that I would willingly, with all my heart, have run
the greatest risks for the love of you, and that I experience a sad
pleasure in having risked my life and honour in your service. Ought not
all that I hold most dear to be at your disposal? Ought I not to be
satisfied at having employed it as I have done? Methinks, even, I am
not at all content with my sorrows, or the excess of my love, although
I cannot, alas! flatter myself sufficiently to be content with you. I
live, unfaithful that I am; I do as much to preserve my life as to lose
it. Ah! I am dying of shame. Is my despair then only in my letters? If
I loved you, as I have told you a thousand times, should I not have
been dead long ago? I have deceived you, and you may rightly complain
of me. Alas! why do you not complain of me? I saw you leave, I can
never hope to see you come back, and in spite of all I yet breathe! I
have deluded you. I ask your pardon, but do not grant it me. Treat me
harshly--say my love for you is too weak; be more hard to please; tell
me that you would have me die of love for your sake. Help me thus, I
conjure you, to overcome the weakness of my sex, and to put an end to
all my wavering in real despair. Doubtless a tragic end would force you
to think of me often, my memory would become dear to you, and perhaps
you would be really touched by so uncommon a death. Would not death be
better than the state to which you have brought me? Good-bye. How I
wish that I had never seen you. Ah! I feel how false this phrase is,
and I know at the very moment in which I write it that I had far rather
be unhappy in my love for you than never have seen you. Willingly, and
without a murmur, I consent to my evil fate, since it has not been your
wish to make it happier. Good-bye; promise me a few tender regrets if
I die of grief, or at least that you will let the violence of my love
give you a disgust and repulsion for everything else. This consolation
will suffice me, and if I must leave you for ever, I would wish not to
leave you to another woman. Would it not be very cruel indeed of you to
make use of my despair to render yourself more agreeable, and to let
it be seen that you have inspired the greatest passion in the world?
Good-bye once again. My letters are too long, and I do not regard you
sufficiently. I ask your pardon, and dare hope that you will show some
indulgence to a poor mad woman who was not so, as you know, before
she loved you. Good-bye. Methinks I too often speak to you of the
insufferable state in which I am, yet I thank you from the bottom of my
heart for the despair which you cause me, and I hate the peace which I
lived in before I knew you.
Good-bye! My love grows stronger each moment. Oh what a world of things
I have to tell you of!
FOURTH LETTER[32]
Ai gostos fugitivos!
Ai gloria já acabada e consumida!
Ai males tão esquivos!
Qual me deixais a vida!
Quão cheia de pezar! quão destruida!
CAMÕES, _Ode_ iii.
Methinks I do the greatest possible wrong to the feelings of my heart
in trying to make them known to you in writing. How happy should I be
could you judge of my passion by the violence of yours! But I must
not compare my feelings with yours, though I cannot help telling you,
much less strongly than I feel it, it is true, that you ought not to
maltreat me as you do by a forgetfulness which thrusts me into despair,
and which even for you is dishonourable. It is but fair that you should
allow me to complain of the evils which I clearly foresaw when I
perceived that you were resolved to forsake me. I well know now that I
deluded myself, thinking as I did that you would deal with me in better
faith than is usually the case, because the excess of my love put me,
it seemed, above all kind of suspicion, and merited more fidelity than
is ordinarily met with. But your wish to deceive me overruled the
|
in
Peeblesshire. The Eshiels herd of cows, with the bull a little apart,
were composedly grazing in the field immediately adjoining the pool at
the mill. There had been heavy rain up the country the previous day,
which had swollen and deepened the river, which, without being greatly
discoloured, flowed majestically between its green banks. Its increased
depth was favourable for Rob's purpose. The pool with a swirl here and
there on its surface, was in capital order. All circumstances conspired
to promise success for the intended exploit.
At the appointed hour, the three lads, Jackson, Ramage, and Clapperton,
who were to act as assistants, were at their post. There they were
seated on the grass under an old ash-tree, on the bank of the river
at Scott's Mill. Rob also kept tryst, for his companions had hardly
seated themselves when he appeared on the scene, carrying a short but
very effective oak walking-stick. The stick was a kind of heirloom. It
had belonged to Rob's grandfather, a stirring fellow in his time, and
likely enough the stick had figured as a weapon in brawls at Beltane
fair. The stick was a remarkable stick. At the upper end was a round
knob fashionably carved, near which there was a hole for a cord, which
could be wound round the hand or wrist. The lower end of the stick was
shod with what looked like a pike, that would take a good grip of the
frozen ground in winter, and be formidable in any defensive struggle.
Rob had appropriated the stick for the day, and we shall immediately
see the use he made of it.
Well, here were the four boys met. There were but few words spoken.
The business of the three auxiliaries was to do all in their power to
enrage the bull by shaking handkerchiefs of different colours they
had brought with them; and particularly when Rob was engaged with the
animal, they were to run hither and thither, and by derisive shouts
draw it away in any required direction. This and other measures being
understood, the play commenced.
There was a united shout, the handkerchiefs were wildly waved. Next, a
provoking cry of 'Bull, bull, bull!' assailed the object of attack. It
was like a trumpet summons to battle.
The bull being unacquainted with the programme, was apparently unable
to comprehend the meaning of the sudden uproar. Lifting his head
inquiringly, he viewed the force which invited his attention. 'Only
four boys; I shall soon settle them.' If the Eshiely bull had any
mind at all, that is what he probably thought of them. They were only
worthy of his contempt. Still there came the provoking cry of 'Bull,
bull, bull!' uttered with offensive reiteration. The challenge was to
the last degree insulting. There was an impertinence in it that was
unendurable. Coming to this conclusion, up went the bull's tail, as if
shaking out a banner of defiance, and with a mighty roar he moved at a
trot which gradually increased in speed.
He was a grand sight. There he came frenziedly on with his surly white
face, his generally dun colour, his black muzzle, and short pointed
horns. Well shaped, he would have taken a prize at Islington, even
in these days of advanced culture. At a bound he cleared a low dike
near the river, to which he went as direct as an arrow, with a view to
attack the foe on their own ground. What did he care for the Tweed. He
had forded it dozens of times. He had stood in it up to the middle in
hot days with all the cows about him, cooling their legs and whisking
their tails to keep off the flies. He would at once cross the river.
In his eagerness to get at the enemy, the Eshiely bull with all his
accomplishments failed to remember that at this point fording was
impossible, and that he must inevitably take to swimming, which was
not exactly within his experience. In his sober moments he might have
thought of this. Now, his blood was up, and on he drove right into the
pool.
Like a general at the head of an army, Rob steadily watched the motions
of his antagonist as he came headlong on to the attack. His attitude
was worthy of being pictured by an artist. With delight he saw the
bull advance right onward, instead of making a circuit to a lower and
shallower part of the river--in which case the game would have been up.
When the monster, snorting and bellowing, with flashing eyes, and with
his tail up, plunged into the pool, Rob's time was come. Now or never
he must act.
It was a trying moment, but with teeth clenched, Rob never quailed.
Like a good soldier going into action, he had but one feeling, and
that was to do his duty. Now, then, for it. To throw off his clothes
till he stood stark naked, was the work of an instant. Seizing the old
oak stick and firmly attaching it by the cord to his wrist, he dashed
down the bank into the water. He was a capital swimmer, could dive
and turn with a sort of amphibious instinct, as most river-side boys
can. Courageously he struck out, heading a little to get up stream
and bear down on the enemy. About and about he swam, ever with the
stick dangling from his wrist. The bull saw his approach, and with a
fierce glare turned abruptly towards him. Rob eluded the encounter by
diving out of sight. This sudden and strange disappearance considerably
disconcerted the bull. He could not imagine what had become of Rob, and
in his perplexity determined to proceed towards the bank, on which the
boys kept shouting and defying him; so onward he went, more enraged
than ever, but somewhat confused in mind from the novelty of the
proceedings.
During this by-play Rob had, underneath the water, got skilfully to the
rear of the bull. This is what he had all along wanted. He now felt
that the day was his own. Approaching the bull stealthily, he got hold
of his tail, which was floating conveniently in the water, and with a
degree of dexterity worthy of an acrobat, he leaped at a bound upon
his back. It was a singularly well-managed feat. A terrible fix this
for the Eshiely bull. He never expected to have been made the victim
of such a trick. The superior brain of a schoolboy had out-manœuvred
him. When Rob got fairly astride on the bull, and loosening the cord,
flourished the stick in his hand, his boy-companions, in their mirth,
set up a roar of laughter. It was a pity there was not a larger body of
spectators. The scene would have brought down the house at Astley's.
The bull was of course prodigiously annoyed, besides being enraged
to madness at finding a boy seated on his back, as if he had been a
riding-horse let out for hire. No bull in the universe had ever been
treated with such atrocious indignity. Moved by these heart-rending
considerations, he wriggled, in the hope of getting Rob off his back.
As jockeys would say, Rob was firm in the saddle. A horse may plunge
and rear and throw his rider, but he does so by having good footing.
The bull had no footing at all. He had no _point d'appui_. He was
swimming for bare life, and had enough to do in keeping his head above
water. He had no fins wherewith to propel himself in any required
direction. No webbed feet. His cloven hoofs could make little way in
the water. In short, do as he liked, he could not throw his rider. Rob
had him at his mercy.
As has been said, Rob had no wish to kill the bull, nor did he wish to
maim or seriously injure him. As he used to avow, he wanted to give
him 'a drilling.' He now began operations. With a swing of the arm,
he brought down the knob of the cudgel with a smart blow on the head
of the animal, saying at the same time: 'Tak' that for frightening
our Jenny.' And so on he went, raining down blows on the head and
shoulders, always repeating: 'Tak' that, and that, for frightening our
Jenny. I'll learn you no to be sae ready crossing the river and running
after people.' The bull perhaps did not understand the full force of
Rob's meaning; but he knew he was overpowered in a way to bring down
his pride.
'Hit him on the horns, Rob,' cried Sandy Clapperton. 'He'll no like
that.'
Rob was not a cruel boy. He had true courage and generosity, and would
not take a mean advantage of his enemy. He accordingly did not feel
inclined to strike the bull on the horns, for he might have broken or
dislodged one of these appendages, and damaged the beast past recovery.
So he continued to beat him in a manner to be painful and mortifying
without being absolutely injurious. It was amazing how this untutored
country lad knew the exact length he might reasonably go. There was
in it no small degree of intuitive common-sense. Swimming about in a
lumbering way, the Eshiely bull was for the first time made amenable
to discipline. By the persuasive agency of the walking-stick, he was
constrained to swim in a kind of circle, as if performing in a piece of
horsemanship at a circus. It was important never to let him get so near
the land on either side as to find a footing. He was kept as nearly as
possible in the middle of the pool, round about and round about, beaten
with the oak stick all the way, and told by Rob that he was punished as
a mean-spirited wretch for running after and frightening little girls.
The whole thing was a pretty piece of rude play. Rob was a moral
disciplinarian. Out of his own conceptions of rectitude, he did that
which the public at large ought long since to have done in a regular
and legal manner. The Eshiely bull ought to have been suppressed as
being a nuisance, almost as dangerous to the community as a wild beast.
Nobody interfered to any good effect. The proprietor of the animal was
one of those miserably selfish individuals who, minding only their
own interest, are indifferent to the rights of others. He had been
frequently told of the alarm caused in the neighbourhood by the bull,
but treated the matter as of small consequence. If the bull annoyed or
killed anybody, what did he care? People should keep out of its way.
As a self-constituted minister of justice, Rob Graham, after a droll
fashion, settled the business. By dint of his grandfather's stick he
brought the bull to its senses, forced it to see the error of its ways.
The play lasted about half-an-hour. During that time, in its
gyrations in the water, Rob gave the bull what he considered a proper
chastisement. Reduced to extremity, it had no heart to prosecute
the war. It was fain to get back to its own side of the water. Rob
indulged it in this laudable desire, for he thought he had humiliated
it sufficiently. He let it make for the north side of the river. Just
as its fore-feet touched the ground, he gave it a parting thwack which
it was likely to remember. And dropping off at the tail, he bade the
bull good-morning. The beast staggered away in an exhausted and dazed
condition to whence it came, with its tail between its legs, and cowed
in a way that never bull was before. Having done his duty, Rob swam
across to the southern bank, with his grandfather's stick in his teeth,
and was congratulated on his gallantry by his juvenile companions,
as also by the miller in his dusty garments, and two or three other
spectators who had collected at the spot.
From that day forward the Eshiely bull never crossed the river, nor
did he run impetuously to attack strangers passing on the highway.
The nonsense was taken out of him. As the Peebles folk said, in their
old-fashioned vernacular, he had got 'a staw'--meaning an effectual
surfeit. The proprietor of the bull affected to be angry at the way the
animal had been treated; but was only laughed at. The thing was too
ludicrous to be taken up seriously.
Were this a romance, we should describe Rob Graham as going abroad,
and like another Clive, distinguishing himself in the public service.
But all we have to relate is a simple country story, as events are
recalled by memory. Rob's extraordinary feat in taming the Eshiely
bull, and adroitly suppressing a gross local evil, met with no public
acknowledgment. He moved in too obscure a sphere to be complimented.
Rob, however, never boasted of his exploit, nor did he care for its
being mentioned. The incident is long since forgotten; perhaps not
remembered by a single person alive but the present narrator. As far
as we have heard, Rob Graham, who might be designated the 'gallant
Graham,' dropped into the position of a ploughman, from which he rose
by his industry and intelligence, to be a grieve or land-steward in the
neighbourhood. Unlearned, yet sagacious; valiant, yet docile; humble,
yet manly and independent, Rob might be accepted as a specimen of
those 'hardy sons of toil' spoken of feelingly by Burns in melodious
verse, and of whom the poet himself is recognised as having been an
illustrious example.
'Bonny Jenny Graham,' Rob's sister, is said to have been married to a
farmer in the west country, and this is all we can tell of the gem of
the old burgh school, the 'Flower of Kailzie.'
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Peg-top and marbles.
PHOTOGRAPHIC PROGRESS.
It is doubtful whether any industrial art has made such rapid strides
within the last thirty years as that of Photography. Founded upon
the simple discovery that a certain chemical salt--the chloride of
silver--becomes blackened upon exposure to light, the art has grown
step by step into an important national industry. It would be next
to impossible to estimate the number of persons who, directly and
indirectly, owe their daily bread to King Sol in his character of
Artist. A glance at the advertisement columns of one of the journals
devoted to this interest will give us some idea of the busy number of
camp-followers running in the wake of the huge army of photographic
artists of Great Britain alone. Opticians, paper-makers, chemical
manufacturers, glass-makers, cabinet-makers, besides a host of others
who supply the _et-cæteras_ of the business, vie with each other in
the adaptability of their goods. Other countries can no doubt shew a
similar list--notably France, whose paper is used by photographers
throughout the world.
Although the peculiar affinity of silver chloride for light was
discovered by Scheele just one hundred years ago, its application to
art was not recognised until the year 1839, when Daguerre in France
and Talbot in England almost simultaneously hit upon the method of
rendering permanent the pictures which had been before obtained, but
which had faded away into darkness as quickly as the daylight which
had given them birth. This discovery of _fixing_ the image, as it is
technically called, was really the starting-point of an art, samples
of which, good, bad, and indifferent, are now to be found in every
homestead in the kingdom.
The mysterious power which could seize almost instantaneously the
fleeting appearances of moving life, could not fail to take a strong
hold on the public attention. Other art-pursuits had of course
previously had numerous aspirants, but they came and went as fashions
do, without leaving any permanent good behind them. Not so photography,
which is perhaps unique in owing its present state of perfection to
the exertions and patient investigations of mere amateurs. The reason
of this unusual state of things is probably due to the fact that
photography has required a large expenditure of both time and money to
bring it to maturity; both which commodities are more plentiful with
those who have not to work for daily bread.
The earliest sun-pictures, as produced by Daguerre, and named after
him, were formed on silver plates treated with iodine. After exposure
in the camera, they were developed by the action of mercury vapour,
which attached itself to those portions of the plate which had received
the greatest amount of light. Such pictures were necessarily difficult
of multiplication, each impression requiring a separate exposure and
development. Examples of this early method of photography may still
be seen in many houses, where they have been carefully treasured as
mementoes of friends who have passed away. These pictures are by no
means of a permanent nature, the action of the air contributing with
other causes to tarnish the silver plate, and so gradually to destroy
the image thereon.
The discovery of the collodion process by Archer in 1851, quite
supplanted the previous method, and gave photography an impetus which
has carried it rapidly forward to the present date. Numerous substances
have been tried at different times to support mechanically the delicate
sun-printed image, but nothing has as yet been found to equal collodion
upon glass.
Photographic art has now become such a thing of our every-day life,
that perhaps there is scarcely an intelligent person who does not know
the difference between a negative and a positive. Every one nowadays
has his or her portrait taken at least once, and can well remember the
nervousness incidental to a first visit to the photographic studio.
Usually the photographer is kind enough to allow his anxious client a
glimpse of the picture in its earliest stage, when the lights are where
the shades ought to be, and _vice versâ_. Such is the negative, from
which any number of positives may be printed by the action of sunlight
on prepared paper placed underneath it. These silver prints (for
although the silver _plate_ is banished with the old method, chloride
of silver contained in the pores of the paper still holds its own) have
unfortunately the character of not being as permanent as they might be.
This fault is commonly attributed to carelessness in not thoroughly
eliminating the salt used in fixing the pictures; so that, by a strange
anomaly, the discovery which claimed to make our photographs permanent
is now charged with the sin of causing their ultimate deterioration.
Photographers complain that the great competition, which has led to
the adoption of low-priced work, will not permit them to give to the
washing of the prints the time and attention which permanence demands.
There are no doubt other causes at work in our heavily charged town
atmospheres which have a destructive effect on our photographs. At
anyrate, be the cause what it may, it is the rule and not the exception
to find a paper print of, say ten years old, sadly faded and generally
disfigured. Such a great disadvantage as this has met with an antidote
in the shape of a discovery which has to a certain extent superseded
the practice of silver printing. We allude to the carbon process,
which is dependent upon the curious fact that bichromatised gelatine,
after exposure to light, becomes insoluble. That is to say, a mixture
of gelatine with the bichromate of an alkali--such as the bichromate
of potash--will remain soluble so long as it is excluded from light.
Carbon in the form of lampblack, or indeed any pigment, is mixed with
this bichromatised gelatine, and paper coated therewith is exposed
under a negative in the same way as in the case of a silver print, warm
water being afterwards used to wash out those portions of the prepared
surface which the sunlight has not rendered immovable.
Such, briefly, is the mode of producing the so-called carbon pictures,
which without doubt are, as they claim to be, as lasting as the paper
on which they are printed. They are not equal, in point of brilliancy,
to the better known silver pictures, but this disadvantage is more
than counterbalanced by their good keeping qualities. The word carbon
as here used is a misnomer, for as we have already indicated, other
pigments, most of which have a metallic origin, may be used in the
process.
Photography as now practised may be classed under two general
heads--the wet process and the dry process: the first being solely
dependent upon the use of collodion and the silver bath; the other
dispensing with either or both. Hitherto, the great obstacle to the
landscape photographer has been the cumbrous nature of the impedimenta
necessary to the production of pictures at a distance from home. It
is by no means an easy matter to transport a dark tent containing a
chemical laboratory, together with a camera and the necessary supply of
water, from one place to another. Moreover, the scenes which naturally
tempt the artist lie in unfrequented, and oftentimes in almost
inaccessible places. The use of dry plates, by which the necessity of
a tent is altogether obviated, has rendered the art far more easy of
accomplishment, and has thus placed outdoor photography amongst those
pastimes which a non-professional can successfully pursue. In the wet
process the sensitive collodion plate must be exposed to the air within
a very few minutes of its removal from the silver bath, otherwise it
becomes quite useless; the object of the various dry processes being
to preserve the film in a sensitive state, so that it can be exposed
as occasion may require, and developed in the studio at a future time.
It is needless to point out that this method of photography dispenses
at once with any travelling gear except the camera and lens, and a
convenient light-tight receptacle for the sensitive plates. Many
ingenious contrivances are now used in the form of changing boxes--as
they are called--by which plates may easily be transferred to the
camera without danger of exposing them to any accidental gleam of
light. The jealousy with which a tourist naturally guards his treasured
dry plates has more than once roused the suspicions of the acute
Custom-house officer, who, in his zeal for the welfare of the revenue,
has unwittingly spoilt the produce of many days' careful work, by
insisting upon opening the strange-looking box!
Although it would be beyond the scope of this paper to enter into
detailed explanation of the manner in which dry plates are prepared,
the importance of the subject must claim some attention at our
hands. In order to render a collodion plate capable of being kept
indefinitely in a dried and sensitive condition, it is found that a
solution of some organic substance must be washed over it, and dried
with it. To enumerate all the various agents that have been employed
for this purpose, would be impossible. Tea, coffee, sugar, tannin,
gum, gelatine, with many other compounds, have each found favour with
different experimenters, and with varying success; but the last-named
substance, gelatine, is perhaps likely to supersede all the others, as
giving more satisfactory and constant results. Plates thus prepared,
although almost wholly disregarded by the professional artist, have,
on account of their portable nature, a large sale among the amateur
members of the photographic world. They are also almost exclusively
used in astronomical photography, a branch of the art to which we will
now direct the reader's attention.
It will be remembered that on the occasion of the last eclipse of
the sun, expeditions to observe it were sent out from nearly every
country of the civilised world; each expedition depending largely
upon photography as a means of recording its labours. Although the
state of the weather at many of the selected stations rendered
the apparatus useless, a great number of pictures were actually
obtained, a comparison of which set at rest certain theories relating
to appearances which had up to this time been the subject of much
discussion and speculation. No human hand could have correctly depicted
such an ever-varying object as the sun presented at this time, to say
nothing of the well-known fact that the power of correctly estimating
appearances varies so much with individuals, that a comparison of mere
drawings would be quite useless for the purpose in view. The cause of
the periodical changes in the sun's spots yet remains to be discovered;
and it is probable that the photographs which are being almost hourly
taken (having for their object the solution of this problem) will
ultimately lead to a satisfactory result.
The transit of Venus represents another important field of inquiry
in which photography has done useful work. The expeditions fitted
out two years ago, with their splendid array of modern instruments,
would compare strangely with the preparations for the investigation of
1761, when Captain Cook started on his ill-fated voyage to Otaheite.
Still more vivid does the progress of scientific research become when
we remember that the very first observation of the transit of Venus
was made one hundred years earlier, with no better apparatus than a
bit of smoked glass. When we consider that the main value of such an
observation rests upon the appearances recorded at the moments of
ingress and egress of the planet upon the sun's face, the importance
of a means for securing _instantaneous_ pictures will be appreciated.
It is true that certain optical defects exist in these pictures which
prevent their use for the purpose of reliable measurement; but these
obstacles, we trust, may be overcome by 1882, when the next transit
will be due.
The practice of micro-photography--that is, a combination of the
camera with the microscope--has lately met with some attention among
scientific men, and there are now many workers who are trying to
bring it into the prominence which it deserves. Formerly, drawings of
microscopic preparations could only be secured by means of a prism
(or camera lucida, as it is called), fitted on to the eyepiece of the
microscope, by which means an enlarged spectral image of the object
became apparent on a sheet of paper placed near the instrument; the
lines thus exhibited being rendered serviceable by the careful use
of the lead-pencil. It is obvious that such means afforded a very
imperfect representation of the image as it really appeared in the
field of the microscope, even if the operator possessed some amount of
artistic skill; but now, by the aid of the camera, a picture of the
most unfailing accuracy can be secured in a fraction of a second. Such
rapidity is only required, however, where the object is of a fluid or
animated nature, as in the case of moving organisms. We venture to
think that there is a great future in store for micro-photography.
One of the most recent applications of photography to scientific uses
is exemplified in its adaptation to the spectroscope, by which we are
furnished with evidence of the composition of the heavenly bodies.
Any account of this marvellous device we must, however, leave for a
future paper. In the fine and useful arts, photography now plays an
important part. Portraits, life size, executed in oil, are successfully
painted from small photographic likenesses, at a comparatively small
cost; and with this important advantage, that the likeness in every
case is unchallengeable. This may be considered a great triumph in the
photographic art.
This power of enlargement to any reasonable dimensions is a great
addition to the resources of the photographer; and it is not alone
confined to portraiture, as the numerous large-sized landscapes
constantly exhibited will testify. In former times, when the lenses
then in use were capable of including but a small portion of a view,
the only way to secure large pictures was to take them in sections,
and afterwards to join the paper prints. The lines of junction were
naturally a great disfigurement to the finished result, to say nothing
of the extra labour which such mode of proceeding involved. The
impossibility of preserving the exact tone of colour in these different
sections through all the vicissitudes of printing, toning, and fixing,
was also enough to condemn the process. These difficulties have been
altogether obviated by the construction of lenses which will include
any amount of the view before which they are placed, and which moreover
give a picture so perfect in detail as to admit of being greatly
magnified without injury to its beauty. The enlargement is now carried
out by a copying camera of the form of the well-known magic lantern,
and lighted by an oxy-hydrogen or magnesium burner. The negative takes
the place of the ordinary painted slide, and the enlarged image is
projected upon a sensitive surface.
Perhaps the greatest problem which the photographer has to solve is
the production of landscapes with their natural canopy of clouds. This
difficulty will be understood when we explain that the sky being such
a brilliant object, requires but a very small fraction of the exposure
which is demanded by the grass and trees beneath it. The plan generally
adopted is to secure a separate negative for each of these component
parts of the picture, and to join them mechanically previous to the
operation of printing. The beautiful instantaneous marine studies which
we all admire--and which represent the clouds in every variety of
form--are produced without this double exposure; for it is obvious that
the reflective property of water confers equal brightness on all parts
of the view.
The production of photographic pictures in printing-ink by means of the
press is now receiving a great deal of attention. Most of the processes
adopted owe their origin to the effective mixture of gelatine and
bichromate of potash. It will be necessary to explain that the gelatine
so treated is not only--after exposure to light--rendered insoluble,
but it becomes quite non-absorbent of water. This property is taken
advantage of in the following manner. A thick plate of glass or metal
coated with the mixture is exposed under a negative, and afterwards
placed for a time in cold water. It is then found that those parts
of the plate which represent the lights of the picture remain flat;
whilst the other portions which have been protected from the light
swell up into high-relief. The plate can then be rolled with ordinary
printing-ink, and impressions taken to any reasonable amount.
Space will not permit us to detail the various modifications of this
process which exist under different designations. Metal plates can
now, by a very similar treatment, be made ready for the etching acid.
Wood-blocks which no artist but the sun has touched, can be given
to the engraver ready to his hand. The lithographic printer is also
independent of the draughtsman, for absolutely perfect fac-similes
of maps, plans, &c.; line-subjects can also be produced in endless
quantity.
The applications of this wonderful art are already legion, and are so
continually receiving additions, that we may hope that its sphere of
usefulness will be extended beyond all present calculation. As a means
of livelihood for thousands, its importance in a commercial sense is
invaluable, while as the handmaid of the philosopher, it fulfils a
higher duty, in helping us by sure and certain steps to the attainment
of scientific truth.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER XI.--CROSS-PURPOSES.
Our journey back to Fairview was a very silent one. Under the plea of
being tired, Lilian lay back in the railway carriage with her eyes
closed and veil down. I did not disturb her, and for the best of
reasons: I could think of nothing very cheering which could be honestly
said. Marian Reed was an unpleasant fact, which could not be argued out
of existence, nor even smoothed over by all the words in the dictionary
combined. The carriage was waiting for us at the railway station; and
only just as we arrived at Fairview did I venture to speak: 'Are you
going to tell Mrs Tipper to-night, Lilian?'
'Yes. And you will help me, will you not, Mary? I shall depend upon
that;' clinging closer to me, and feeling, I knew, terribly in need of
help.
'Of course I will, if you wish it, Lilian. But I must stipulate that
you first come to my room and rest for an hour.'
She obeyed me like a child--utterly worn out in spirit, holding my
hand fast in hers as she lay on the couch, and murmuring every now and
again: 'Help me, Mary; don't leave me.'
'Since I have promised, I suppose I must, my dear,' I replied in a
rallying tone. 'But I do not generally care much about helping people
who do not help themselves.'
She yielded to a burst of tears.
'That's better, dear--far more sensible,' I remarked, wiping my own
eyes: 'one generally gets on more comfortably after availing one's self
of that privilege.'
'Privilege?'
'"Right," if you prefer the word; one of our rights. If one could
attain the end by more dignified means, it might be as well; but the
grandest of heroines occasionally shed tears; so I suppose it is the
best known method of making one's self comfortable; and harmless enough
when used with discretion--as heroines use it.'
'Ah, Mary, you are not talking like yourself. When you talk like that,
I sometimes think it is to conceal'----
'Well, dear; why do not you go on? To conceal what--that I am _not_
a heroine?' I asked in a jesting tone, only too glad to be able to
draw her sufficiently away from painful reflection for a little
nonsense-talk.
'I sometimes think that having larger needs than other people'----
'Well, dear?'
'Which needs have not been satisfied'----
'There is something still required to make a complete sentence, you
know.'
'Are large needs ever quite satisfied, Mary?'
'Dear Lilian--dear sister--perhaps not.'
'Mary, you said _sister_!' A soft flush in her face, and eager love in
her eyes.
'Because I meant it, I suppose, dearie; I can give no other reason,' I
said, trying still to keep the jesting tone. 'If you do not object to
an elderly sister?'
'Not if elder sisters do not put themselves out of reach of the
sympathy of the younger.'
'Put themselves,' I repeated musingly. 'May not circumstances do that
for them?'
'When will you tell me--dear Mary, when will you let me feel that you
really are like a sister to me?'
At which I morbidly shrank back into my shell again. 'When my
love-story is finished you shall hear it.'
'Finished! As though a love-story ever _could_ be finished--as though
you or I would care to have one, if it could! But you have not told me
even the beginning.'
'You have found out that for yourself, darling.'
'And am I right in thinking--I hope I am not; but---- Dear Mary, am I
to say exactly what I think?'
'Exactly.'
'Then sometimes I think that one you loved---- Mary, is he dead?'
Dead! Philip dead! I laughed in spirit. If he were dead, should I be
alive--in this way? I did not reflect that my silence and the few
tears which stole down my cheeks might seem to bear out her theory
as to my having something to regret. But I presently shook myself
free of sentiment, smilingly observing that we could not afford the
luxury of analysing our feelings just then. Sentiment would be only a
stumbling-block in our way, when we needed all the nerve, courage, and
steady self-control we could muster.
'To begin with: would you like me to make matters smooth and pleasant
with Mrs Tipper before dinner, Lilian? You would then perhaps find less
difficulty in broaching the subject to Mr Trafford, if, as I fancy, you
prefer doing so in our presence?'
'Yes; I do prefer that, ever so much; and I shall be glad if you will
tell auntie, Mary.'
As I had anticipated, we found no difficulty in bringing the dear
little lady to our way of thinking. As soon as she had in some degree
recovered her astonishment at the revelation, she expressed her
entire approval of what had been done. She was not a little shocked
and distressed to find her brother had been less perfect than she had
imagined him to be; but it appeared to her a natural and right thing
that Marian Reed should be asked to come to reside at Fairview. Even my
little 'aside,' which I thought necessary, lest her expectations should
be unduly raised, to the effect that we did not as yet feel quite sure
Marian would be a desirable person to live with, had no weight with
Mrs Tipper. She could only look at the question from one point of
view--whether it was right to do as Lilian had done. Whether the other
would be more or less pleasant to get on with, was, in her estimation,
beside the matter
|
Paradise. Before going to Simla he had been stationed with a Double Company
of the Indian Infantry Regiment to which he belonged in a similar outpost
in the mountains not many miles away. This outpost had now been abolished.
But while in it he used to spend all his spare time in the marvellous
jungle that extended to his very door.
The great Terai Forest stretches for hundreds of miles along the foot of
the Himalayas, from Assam through Bengal to Garwhal and up into Nepal. It
is a sportsman's heaven; for it shelters in its recesses wild elephants,
rhinoceros, bison, bears, tigers, panthers, and many of the deer tribes.
Dermot loved it. He was a mighty hunter, but a discriminating one. He did
not kill for sheer lust of slaughter, and preferred to study the ways of
the harmless animals rather than shoot them. Only against dangerous beasts
did he wage relentless war.
Dermot knew that he could very well leave the routine work of the little
post to his Second in Command. The fort was practically a block of
fortified stone barracks, easily defensible against attacks of badly armed
hillmen and accommodating a couple of hundred sepoys. It was to hold the
_duar_ or pass of Ranga through the Himalayas against raiders from Bhutan
that the little post had been built.
For centuries past the wild dwellers beyond the mountains were used to
swooping down from the hills on the less warlike plainsmen in search of
loot, women, and slaves. But the war with Bhutan in 1864-5 brought the
borderland under the English flag, and the Pax Britannica settled on it.
Yet even now temptation was sometimes too strong for lawless men.
Occasionally swift-footed parties of fierce swordsmen swept down through
the unguarded passes and raided the tea-gardens that are springing up in
the foothills and the forests below them. For hundreds of coolies work on
these big estates, and large consignments of silver coin come to the
gardens for their payment.
But there was bigger game afoot than these badly-armed raiders. The task
set Dermot showed it; and his soldier's heart warmed at the thought of
helping to stage a fierce little frontier war in which he might come early
on the scene.
Carefully sealing up again and locking away the cipher code and keyword, he
went out on the back verandah and shouted for his orderly. The dwellings of
Europeans upcountry in India are not luxurious--far from it. Away from the
big cities like Bombay, Calcutta, or Karachi, the amenities of civilisation
are sadly lacking. The bungalows are lit only by oil-lamps, their floors
are generally of pounded earth covered with poor matting harbouring fleas
and other insect pests, their roofs are of thatch or tiles, and such
luxuries as bells, electric or otherwise, are unknown. So the servants, who
reside outside the bungalows in the compounds, or enclosures, are summoned
by the simple expedient of shouting "Boy".
Presently the orderly appeared.
"Shaikh Ismail," said the Major, "go to the Mess, give my salaams to Parker
Sahib, and ask him to come here."
The sepoy, a smart young Punjabi Mussulman, clad in the white undress
of the Indian Army, saluted and strode off up the hill to the pretty
mess-bungalow of the British officers of the detachment. In it the
subaltern occupied one room.
When he received Dermot's message, this officer, a tall, good-looking man
of about twenty-eight years of age, accompanied the orderly to his senior's
quarters.
"Come in and have a smoke, Parker," said the Major cheerily.
The subaltern entered and helped himself to a cigarette from an open box on
the table before looking for a chair in the scantily-furnished room.
As he struck a match he said,
"Ismail Khan tells me you've just had trouble with that surly beast, Chand
Khan".
Dermot told him what had occurred.
"What a _soor!_ (swine!)" exclaimed Parker indignantly. "I always knew he
was a cruel devil; but I didn't think he was quite such a brute. And to
poor old Badshah too. It's a damned shame".
"He's a good elephant, isn't he?" asked the senior.
"A ripper. Splendid to shoot from and absolutely staunch to tiger," said
the subaltern enthusiastically. "Major Smith--our Commandant before you,
sir--was charged by a tiger he had wounded in a beat near Alipur Duar. He
missed the beast with his second barrel. The tiger sprang at the howdah,
but Badshah caught him cleverly on his one tusk and knocked him silly. The
Major reloaded and killed the beast before it could recover."
"Good for Badshah. He seemed to me to be a fine animal," said Dermot.
"One of the best. We all like him; though he'll never let any white man
handle him. By the way, Ismail Khan says he permitted you to do it."
"I doctored up his cuts. Besides, I'm used to elephants."
"All the same you're the first sahib I've heard Of that Badshah has allowed
to touch him. Do you know, the Hindus worship him. He's a _Gunesh_--I
supposed you noticed that. I've seen some of them simply go down on their
faces in the dust before him and pray to him. There's a curious thing about
Badshah, too. Have you heard?"
"No. What is it?" asked the Major.
"Well, it's a rummy thing. He's usually awfully quiet and obedient. But
sometimes he gets very restless, breaks loose, and goes off on his own into
the jungle. After a week or two he comes back by himself, as quiet as a
lamb. But when the fit's on him nothing will hold him. He bursts the
stoutest ropes, breaks iron chains; and I believe he'd pull down the
_peelkhana_ if he couldn't get away."
"Oh, that often happens with domesticated male elephants," said Dermot.
"They have periodic fits of sexual excitement--get _must_, you know--and go
mad while these last."
"Oh, no. It's not that," replied the subaltern confidently. "Badshah
doesn't go _must_. It's something quite different. The jungle men around
here have a quaint belief about it. You see, Badshah was captured by the
Kheddah Department here years ago--twenty, I think. He's about forty now.
He was taken away to other parts of India, Mhow for one----"
"Yes, they used to have an elephant battery there," broke in the Major.
"But somehow or other he got here eventually. Rather curious that he should
have been sent back to his birthplace. Anyhow, the natives believe that
when he breaks away he goes off to family reunions or to meet old pals."
"I shouldn't be surprised," remarked Dermot, meditatively. "They're strange
beasts, elephants. No one really knows much about them. I expect the jungle
calls to them, as it does to me."
He lit a cigarette and went on,
"But I've sent for you to talk over something important. Read that."
He handed Parker his transcription of the cipher letter. As the subaltern
read it his eyes opened wider and wider. When he had finished he exclaimed
joyfully,
"By Jove, Major, that's great. Do you think there's anything in it? How
ripping it'll be if they try to come in by this pass! Won't we just knock
them! Couldn't we get some machine guns?"
"I'm afraid we couldn't hold the Fort of Ranga Duar against a whole
invading army, Parker. You know it isn't really defensible against a
serious attack."
"Oh, I say! Do you mean, sir, that we'd give it up to a lot of Chinks and
bare-legged Bhuttias without firing a shot?"
The Major smiled at his junior's indignation.
"You must remember, Parker, that if an invasion comes off it will be on a
scale that two hundred men won't stop. The Bhutanese are badly armed; but
they are fanatically brave. They showed that in their war with us in '64
and '65. They had only swords, bows, and arrows; but they licked one of our
columns hollow and drove our men in headlong flight. But cheer up, Parker,
if there is a show it won't be my fault if you and I don't have a good look
in."
"Thank you, Major," said the subaltern gratefully.
He smoked in silence for a while and then said:
"D'you know, sir, I had an idea there was something up when Major Smith was
suddenly ordered away and you, who didn't belong to us, were sent here from
Simla. I'd heard of you before, not only as a great _shikari_--the natives
everywhere in these jungles talk a lot about you--but also as a keen
soldier. A fellow doesn't usually come straight from a staff job at Army
Headquarters to a small outpost like this for nothing."
Dermot laughed.
"Unless he has got into trouble and is sent off as a punishment," he said.
"But that didn't happen to be my case. However, I was delighted to leave
Simla. Better the jungle a thousand times."
"Yes; Simla's rather a rotten place, I believe," remarked the subaltern
meditatively. "Too many brass hats and women. They're the curse of India,
each of them. And I'm sure the women do the most harm."
"Well, steer clear of the latter, and don't become one of the former," said
Dermot with a laugh, rising from his chair, "then you'll have a peaceful
life--but you won't get on in your profession."
CHAPTER II
A ROGUE ELEPHANT
The four transport elephants attached to the garrison of Ranga Duar for the
purpose of bringing supplies for the men from the far distant railway were
stabled in a _peelkhana_ at the foot of the hills and a couple of thousand
feet below the Fort. This building, a high-walled shed with thatched roof
and brick standings for the animals, was erected beside the narrow road
that zig-zagged down from the mountains into the forest and eventually
joined a broader one leading to the narrow-gauge railway that pierced the
jungle many miles away.
One morning, about three weeks after Dermot's first introduction to
Badshah, the Major tramped down the rough track to the _peelkhana_,
carrying a rifle and cartridge belt and a haversack containing his food for
the day. Nearing the stables he blew a whistle, and a shrill trumpeting
answered him from the building, as Badshah recognised his signal. Ramnath,
hurriedly entering the impatient elephant's stall, loosed him from the iron
shackles that held his legs. Then the huge beast walked with stately tread
out of the building and went straight to where Dermot awaited him. For
during these weeks the intimacy between man and animal had progressed
rapidly. Elephants, though of an affectionate disposition, are not
demonstrative as a rule. But Badshah always showed unmistakable signs of
fondness for the white man, whom he seemed to regard as his friend and
protector.
Dermot was in the habit of taking him out into the jungle every day, where
he went ostensibly to shoot. After the first few occasions he displaced
Ramnath from the guiding seat on Badshah's neck and acted as _mahout_
himself. But, instead of using the _ankus_--the heavy iron implement shaped
like a boat-hook head which natives use to emphasise their orders to their
charges--the Major simply touched the huge head with his open hand. And his
method proved equally, if not more, effective. He was soon able to dispense
altogether with Ramnath on his expeditions, which was his object. For he
did not want any witness to his secret explorations of the forest and the
hills.
An elephant, when used as a beast of burden or for shooting from in thick
jungle, carries on its back only a "pad"--a heavy, straw-stuffed mattress
reaching from neck to tail and fastened on by a rope surcingle passing
round the body. On this pad, if passengers are to be carried, a wooden seat
with footboards hanging by cords from it and called a _charjama_ is placed.
Only for sport in open country or high grass jungle is the cage-like howdah
employed.
Dermot replaced Badshah's heavy pad by a small, light one, especially made,
or else took him out absolutely bare. No shackles were needed to secure the
elephant when his white rider dismounted from his neck, for he followed
Dermot like a dog, came to his whistle, or stood without moving from the
spot where he had been ordered to remain. The most perfect understanding
existed between the two; and the superstitious Hindus regarded with awe the
extraordinary subjection of their sacred and revered _Gunesh_ to the white
man.
Now, after a greeting and a palatable gift to Badshah, Dermot seized the
huge ears, placed his foot on the trunk which was curled to receive it and
was swung up on to the neck by the well-trained animal. Then, answering the
_salaams_ of the _mahouts_ and coolies, who invariably gathered to witness
and wonder at his daily meeting with Badshah, he touched the elephant under
the ears with his toe and was borne away into the jungle.
His object this day was not to explore but to shoot a deer to replenish the
mess larder. Fresh meat was otherwise unprocurable in Ranga Duar; and an
unvaried diet of tinned food was apt to become wearisome, especially as it
was not helped out by bread and fresh vegetables. These were luxuries
unknown to the British officers in this, as in many other, outposts.
The sea of vegetation closed around Badshah and submerged him, as he turned
off a footpath and plunged into the dense undergrowth. The trees were
mostly straight-stemmed giants of teak, branchless for some distance from
the ground. Each strove to thrust its head above the others through the
leafy canopy overhead, fighting for its share of the life-giving sunlight.
In the green gloom below tangled masses of bushes, covered with large,
bell-shaped flowers and tall grasses in which lurked countless thorny
plants obstructed the view between the tree-trunks. Above and below was a
bewildering confusion of creepers forming an intricate network, swinging
from the upper branches and twisting around the boles, biting deep into the
bark, strangling the life out of the stoutest trees or holding up the
withered, lifeless trunks of others long dead. They filled the space
between the tree-tops and the undergrowth, entangled, crisscrossed,
festooned, like a petrified mass of writhing snakes.
Through this maddening obstacle Badshah forced his way; while Dermot hacked
at the impeding _lianas_ with a sharp _kukri_, the heavy-bladed Gurkha
knife. The elephant moved on at an easy pace, shouldering aside the surging
waves of vegetation and bursting the clinging hold of the creepers. As he
went he swept huge bunches of grass up in his trunk, tore down leafy trails
or broke off small branches, and crammed them all impartially into his
mouth. At a touch of Dermot's foot or the guiding pressure of his hand he
swerved aside to avoid a tree or a particularly thorny bush.
There was little life to be seen. But occasionally, with a whirring sound
of rushing wings, a bright-plumaged jungle cock with his attendant bevy of
sober-clad hens swept up with startled squawks from under the huge feet and
flew to perch high up on neighbouring trees, chattering and clucking
indignantly in their fright. The pretty black and white Giant Squirrel ran
along the upper branches; or a troop of little brown monkeys leapt away
among the tree tops.
It was fascinating to be borne along without effort through the enchanted
wood in the luminous green gloom that filled it, lulled by the swaying
motion of the elephant's stride. The soothing silence of the woodland was
broken only by the crowing of a jungle cock. The thick, leafy screen
overhead excluded the glare of the tropic sunlight; and the heat was
tempered to a welcome coolness by the dense shade.
But, despite the soporific motion of his huge charger, Dermot's vigilant
eye searched the apparently lifeless jungle as he was borne along.
Presently it was caught by a warm patch of colour, the bright chestnut hide
of a deer; and he detected among the trees the graceful form of a _sambhur_
hind. Accustomed to seeing wild elephants the animal gazed without
apprehension at Badshah and failed to mark the man on his neck. But females
of the deer tribe are sacred to the sportsman; and the hunter passed on.
Half a mile farther on, in the deepest shadow of the undergrowth, he saw
something darker still. It was the dull black hide of a _sambhur_ stag, a
fine beast fourteen hands high, with sharp brow antlers and thick horns
branching into double points. Knowing the value of motionlessness as a
concealment the animal never moved; and only an eye trained to the jungle
would have detected it. Dermot noted it, but let it remain unscathed; for
he knew well the exceeding toughness of its flesh. What he sought was a
_kakur_, or barking deer, a much smaller but infinitely more palatable
beast.
Hours passed; and he and Badshah had wandered for miles without finding
what he wanted. He looked at his watch; for the sun was invisible. It was
nearly noon. In a space free from undergrowth he halted the elephant and,
patting the skull with his open hand, said:
"_Buth!_"
Badshah at the word sank slowly down until he rested on his breast and
belly with fore and hind legs stuck out stiffly along the ground. Dermot
slipped off his neck and stretched his cramped limbs; for sitting long
upright on an elephant without any support to the back is tiring. Then
he reclined under a tree with his loaded rifle beside him--for the
peaceful-seeming forest has its dangers. He made a frugal lunch off a
packet of sandwiches from his haversack.
Eating made him thirsty. He had forgotten to bring his water-bottle with
him; and he knew that there was no stream to be met with in the jungle for
many miles. But he was aware that the forest could supply his wants.
Rising, he drew his _kukri_ and looked around him. Among the tangle of
creepers festooned between the trees he detected the writhing coils of one
with withered, cork-like bark, four-sided and about two inches in diameter.
He walked over to it and, grasping it in his left hand, cut it through with
a blow of his heavy knife. Its interior consisted of a white, moist pulp.
With another blow he severed a piece a couple of feet long. Taking a metal
cup from his haversack he cut the length of creeper into small pieces and
held all their ends together over the little vessel. From them water began
to drip, the drops came faster and finally little streams from the pulpy
interior filled the cup to the brim with a cool, clear, and palatable
liquid. The _liana_ was the wonderful _pani-bêl_, or water-creeper.
Dermot drank until his thirst was quenched, then sat down with his back
against a tree and lit his pipe. He smoked contentedly and watched Badshah
grazing. The elephant plucked the long grass with a scythe-like sweep of
his trunk, tore down succulent creepers and broke off small branches from
the trees, chewing the wood and leaves with equal enjoyment. From time to
time he looked towards his master, but, receiving no signal to prepare to
move on, continued his meal.
At last the Major knocked out the ashes of his pipe, grinding them into the
earth with his heel lest a chance spark might start a forest fire, and
whistled to Badshah. The elephant came at once to him. From his haversack
Dermot took out a couple of bananas and held them up. The snake-like trunk
shot out and grasped them, then curving back placed them in the huge mouth.
Dermot stood up and, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, seized Badshah's
ears and was lifted again to his place astride the neck.
Once more the jungle closed about them, as the elephant moved off. The
rider, unslinging his rifle and laying it across his thighs, glanced from
side to side as they proceeded. The forest grew more open. The undergrowth
thinned; and occasionally they came to open glades carpeted with tall
bracken and looking almost like an English wood. But the great boughs of
the giant trees were matted thick with the glossy green leaves of orchid
plants, from which drooped long trails of delicate mauve and white flowers.
Just as they were emerging from dense undergrowth on to such a glade,
Dermot's eye was caught by something moving ahead of them. He checked
Badshah; and they remained concealed in in the thick vegetation. Then
through the trees came a trim little _kakur_ buck, stepping daintily in
advance of his doe which followed a few yards behind. As they moved their
long ears twitched incessantly, pointing now in this, now in that,
direction for any sound that might warn them of danger. But they did not
detect the hidden peril. Dermot noiselessly raised his rifle, aimed
hurriedly at the leader's shoulder and fired. The loud report sounded like
thunder through the silent forest. The stricken buck sprang convulsively
into the air, then fell in a heap; while his startled mate leaped over his
body and disappeared in bounding flight.
At the touch of his rider's foot the elephant moved forward into the open;
and without waiting for him to sink down Dermot slid to the ground. Old
hunter that he was, the Major could never repress a feeling of pity when he
looked on any harmless animal that he had shot; and he had long ago given
up killing such except for food. He propped his rifle against a tree and,
taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, drew his _kukri_ and
proceeded to disembowel and clean the _kakur_. While he was thus employed
Badshah strayed away into the jungle to graze, for elephants feed
incessantly.
When Dermot had finished his unpleasant task, it still remained to bind the
buck's legs together and tie him on to Badshah's back. For this he would
need cords; but he relied on the inexhaustible jungle to supply him with
these.
While searching for the udal tree whose inner bark would furnish him with
long, tough strips, he heard a crashing in the undergrowth not far away,
but, concluding that it was caused by Badshah, he did not trouble to look
round. Having got the cordage that he needed, he turned to go back to the
spot where he had left the _kakur_. As he fought his way impatiently
through the thorny tangled vegetation, he again heard the breaking of twigs
and the trampling down of the undergrowth. He glanced in the direction of
the sound, expecting to see Badshah appear.
To his dismay his eyes fell on a strange elephant, a large double-tusker.
It had caught sight of him and, contrary to the usual habit of its kind,
was advancing towards him instead of retreating. This showed that it was
the most terrible of all wild animals, a man-killing "rogue" elephant, than
which there is no more vicious or deadly brute on the earth.
Dermot instantly recognised his danger. It was very great. His rifle was
some distance away, and before he could reach it the tusker would probably
overtake him. He stopped and stood still, hoping that the rogue had not
caught sight of him. But he saw at once that there was no doubt of this.
The brute had its murderous little eyes fixed on him and was quickening its
pace. The undergrowth that almost held the man a prisoner was no obstacle
to this powerful beast.
Dermot realised that it meant to attack him. His heart nearly stopped, for
he knew the terrible death that awaited him. He had seen the crushed
bodies, battered to pulp and with the limbs torn away, of men killed by
rogue elephants. The only hope of escape, a faint one, lay in flight.
Madly he strove to tear himself free from the clutching thorns and the grip
of the entangling creepers that held him. He flung all his weight into his
efforts to fight his way out clear of the malignant vegetation, that seemed
a cruel, living thing striving to drag him to his death. The elephant saw
his desperate struggles. It trumpeted shrilly and, with head held high,
trunk curled up, and the lust of murder in its heart, it charged.
The tangled network of interlaced undergrowth parted like gossamer before
it. Small trees went down and the tallest bushes were trampled flat; the
stoutest creepers broke like pack-thread before its weight.
Dermot tore himself free from the clutch of the last clinging, curving
thorns that rent his garments and cut deep into his flesh. Gaining
comparatively open ground he ran for his life. But he had lost all sense of
direction and could not remember where his rifle stood. Escape seemed
hopeless. He knew only too well that in the jungle a pursuing elephant will
always overtake a fleeing man. The trees offered no refuge, for the lowest
branches were high above his reach and the trunks too thick and straight to
climb. He fled, knowing that each moment might be his last. A false step, a
trip over a root or a creeper and he was lost. He would be gored, battered
to death, stamped out of existence, torn limb from limb by the vicious
brute.
The rogue was almost upon him. He swerved suddenly and with failing breath
and fiercely beating heart ran madly on. But the respite was momentary. His
head was dizzy, his legs heavy as lead, his strength almost gone. He could
hear the terrible pursuer only a few yards behind him.
Already the great beast's uncurled trunk was stretched out to seize its
prey. Dermot's last moment had come when, with a fierce, shrill scream, a
huge body burst out of the jungle and hurled itself at his assailant.
Badshah had come to the rescue of his man.
Before the rogue could swing round to meet him the gallant animal had
charged furiously into it, driving his single tusk with all his immense
weight behind it into the strange elephant's side. The shock staggered the
murderous brute and almost knocked it to the ground. Only the fact of its
having turned slightly at Badshah's cry, so that his tusk inflicted a
somewhat slanting blow, had saved it from a mortal wound. Before it could
recover its footing Badshah gored it again.
Dermot, plucked at the last moment from the most terrible of deaths,
staggered panting to a tree and tried to stand, supporting himself against
the trunk. But the strain had been too great. He turned faint and sank
exhausted to the earth, almost unconscious. But the remembrance of
Badshah's peril from a better-armed antagonist--for the possession of two
tusks gave the rogue a great advantage--nerved him. Holding on to the tree
he dragged himself up and looked around for his rifle. He could not see it,
and he dared not cross the arena in which the two huge combatants were
fighting.
As Badshah drew back to gain impetus for another charge, the rogue regained
its feet and prepared to hurl itself on the unexpected assailant. Dermot
was in despair at being unable to aid his saviour, who he feared must
succumb to the superior weapons of his opponent. He gazed fascinated at the
titanic combat.
The rogue trumpeted a shrill challenge. Then it curled its trunk between
its tusks out of harm's way and with ears cocked forward and tail erect
rushed to the assault. But suddenly it propped on stiffened forelegs and
stopped dead. It stared at Badshah, who was about to charge again, and
backed slowly, seemingly panic-stricken. Then as the tame elephant moved
forward to the attack the rogue screamed with terror, swung about, and with
ears and tail dropped, bolted into the undergrowth.
With a trumpet of triumph Badshah pursued. Dermot, left alone, could
hardly credit the passing of the danger. The whole episode seemed a
hideous nightmare from which he had just awaked. He could scarcely
believe that it had actually taken place, although the trampled
vegetation and the crashing sounds of the great animals' progress
through the undergrowth were evidence of its reality. The need for
action had not passed. The rogue might return, for a fight between wild
bull-elephants often lasts a whole day and consists of short and
desperate encounters, retreats, pursuits, and fresh battles. So he
hurriedly searched for his rifle, which he eventually found some
distance away. He opened the breach and replaced the soft-nosed bullets
with solid ones, more suitable for such big game. Then, once more
feeling a strong man armed, he waited expectantly. The sounds of the
chase had died away. But after a while he heard a heavy body forcing a
passage through the undergrowth and held his rifle ready. Then through
the tangle of bushes and creepers Badshah's head appeared. The elephant
came straight to him and touched him all over with outstretched trunk,
just as mother-elephants do their calves, as if to assure himself of his
man's safety.
Dermot could have kissed the soft, snake-like proboscis, and he patted the
animal affectionately and murmured his thanks to him. Badshah seemed to
understand him and wrapped his trunk around his friend's shoulders. Then,
apparently satisfied, he moved away and began to graze calmly, as if
nothing out of the common had taken place.
Dermot pulled himself together. Near the foot of the tree at which he had
sunk down he found the cord-like strips of bark which he had cut. Picking
them up he went to the carcase of the buck and tied its legs together. A
whistle brought the elephant to him, and, hoisting the deer on to the pad,
he fastened it to the surcingle. Then, grasping the elephant's ears, he was
lifted to his place on the neck.
Turning Badshah's head towards home he started off; but, as he went, he
looked back at the trampled glade and thanked Heaven that his body was not
lying there, crushed and lifeless.
CHAPTER III
A GIRL OF THE TERAI
"How beautiful! How wonderful!" murmured the girl on the verandah, her eyes
turned to the long line of the Himalayas filling the horizon to the north.
Clear against the blue sky the shining, ice-clad peaks of Kinchinjunga, a
hundred miles away, towered high in air. Mystic, lovely, they seemed to
float above the earth, as unsubstantial as the clouds from which they rose.
They belonged to another world, a fairy world altogether apart from the
rugged, tumbled masses, the awe-inspiring precipices and tremendous cliffs,
of the nearer mountains. These were majestic, overpowering, but plainly of
this earth, unlike the pure, white summits that seemed unreal, impossible
in their beauty.
"Do come and look, Fred," said the girl aloud. "I've never seen the Snows
so clearly."
She spoke to the solitary occupant of the dining-room of the bungalow. The
young man at the breakfast table answered laughingly:
"I don't want to look at those confounded hills, Sis. I've seen them,
nothing but them, all through these long months, until I begin to hate the
sight of them."
"Oh, but do come, dear!" she pleaded. "Kinchinjunga has never seemed so
beautiful as it does this morning. And it looks so near. Who could believe
that it was all those miles away?"
With an air of pretended boredom and martyr-like resignation, her brother
put down his coffee-cup and came out on the verandah.
"Isn't it like Fairyland?" said the girl in an awed voice.
He put his arm affectionately round her, as he replied:
"Then it's where you belong, kiddie, for you look like a fairy this
morning."
The hackneyed compliment, unusual from the lips of a brother, was not
far-fetched. If a dainty little figure, an exquisitely pretty dimpled
face, a shell-pink complexion, violet eyes with long, thick lashes, and
naturally wavy golden hair be the hallmarks of the fairies, then Noreen
Daleham might claim to be one. Her face in repose had a somewhat sad
expression, due to the pathetic droop of the corners of her little
mouth and a wistful look in her eyes that made most men instinctively
desire to caress and console her. But the sadness and the wistfulness
were unconscious and untrue, for the girl was of a sunny and happy
disposition. And the men that desired to pet her were kept at a distance
by her natural self-respect, which made them respect her, too.
She was, perhaps, somewhat unusual in her generation in that she did not
indulge in flirtations and would have strongly objected to being the object
of promiscuous caresses and light lovemaking. Her innate purity and
innocence kept such things at a distance from her. It never occurred to her
that a girl might indulge in a hundred flirtations without reproach.
Without being sentimental she had her own inward, unexpressed feelings of
romance and vague dreams of Love and a Lover--but not of loves and lovers
in the plural.
No one so far had shattered her belief in the chivalrous feeling of respect
of the other sex for her own. Men as a rule, especially British men--though
they are no more virtuous than those of alien nations--treat a woman as she
inwardly wants them to treat her. And, although this girl was over twenty,
she had never yet had reason to suspect that men could behave to her with
anything but respect.
Her small and shapely figure looked to advantage in the well-cut riding
costume of khaki drill that she wore this morning. A cloth habit would
have been too warm for even these early days of an Eastern Bengal hot
weather. She was ready to accompany her brother in his early ride
through the tea-garden (of which he was assistant manager) in the Duars,
as this district of the Terai below the mountains is called. From the
verandah on which they stood they could look over acres of trim and tidy
bushes planted in orderly rows, a strong contrast to the wild disorder
of the big trees and masses of foliage of the forest that lay beyond
them and stretched to and along the foothills of the Himalayas only a
few miles away.
Daleham's father, a retired colonel, had died just as the boy was preparing
to go up for the entrance examination for the Royal Military College at
Sandhurst. To his great grief he was obliged to give up all hope of
becoming a soldier, and, when he left school, entered an office in the
city. Passionately desirous of an open-air and active life he had
afterwards eagerly snatched at an offer of employment by one of the great
tea companies that are dotting the Terai with their plantations and
sweeping away glorious spaces of wild, primeval forest to replace the trees
by orderly rows of tea-bushes and unsightly iron-roofed factories.
Left with a small income inherited from her mother, Noreen Daleham, who was
two years her brother's junior, had gladly given up the dulness of a home
with an aunt in a small country town to accompany her brother and keep
house for him.
To most girls life on an Indian tea-garden would not seem alluring; for
they would find themselves far from social gaieties and the society of
their kind. Existence is lonely and lacking in the comforts, as well as the
luxuries, of civilisation. Dances, theatres, concerts, even shops, are far,
very far away. A woman must have mental resources to enable
|
and inspired by the figures
wandering down the paths and grouping themselves under the great trees.
Watteau, dallying in the gardens, remembering the theatrical methods of
Métayer, the subjects of Gillot, the flexibility and fancy of Audran,
the daring of the great Rubens, began to develop into an original.
Gradually, too, he grew restless, feeling that he was not wholly free to
paint his dreams. A vague nostalgia persuaded his artistic temperament
that it was his home he wanted to see--Valenciennes and his people. Be
that as it may, this was the reason he gave for leaving Audran, who had
always been kind and appreciative; although the wily painter of garlands
and arabesques tried to dissuade his _protégé_ from painting pictures,
fearing to lose so able an assistant in his own ornamental work. Before
parting from Audran, Watteau made his first real essay in his second
manner, a picture of "The Departure of the Troops," a reminiscence of
the life at Valenciennes. This work he sold to the dealer Sirois for
sixty livres, and with the money he started for home, despite Audran's
protests.
Valenciennes at that time was gay with soldiers and _dames galantes_ and
Watteau painted several military pictures--groups marked with truth, yet
full of grace; he also filled his sketch-books with incomparable
drawings. But he could not long resist the call of Paris. Valenciennes
seemed to have grown smaller, less interesting. The painter fretted in
the narrow sphere of the provincial town; once again his wayward feet
were set towards the capital. He arrived in Paris in 1709, and before
long persuaded himself that he would like to visit Rome. With this end
in view he competed for the _Prix de Rome_, but succeeded only in
obtaining second prize. Soon recovering from the disappointment, he
painted a companion picture to the work he had sold to Sirois for sixty
livres, but for the companion he asked and obtained two hundred and
sixty livres. These two pictures he borrowed from Sirois and hung in a
room, where he knew they would be seen by the Academicians as they
passed from one apartment to another. The painter De la Fosse, impressed
by their colour and quality, paused and asked the name of the author.
He was informed that they were the work of a young and unknown man who
craved intercession with the king for a "pension" in order that he might
study in Italy. De la Fosse sent for Watteau, whom he found modest, shy,
and deprecatory of his work. Watteau stated his desire to study abroad.
He was told--the episode in these days seems hardly credible--to his
astonishment and joy, that there was no need for him to study with any
one; that he was already master; that he would honour the Academy if he
would consent to become a member, and that he had only to present
himself to be enrolled. This he did and was duly elected, the
inauguration fee in consideration of his circumstances being reduced to
one hundred livres. And so in 1712, at the age of twenty-eight, the poor
unknown, who failed to win the first prize in the _Prix de Rome_, was
made free of the Academy, was given the new title of _peintre des Fêtes
Galantes_, and became, almost in a bound, famous.
Ill and moody, he worked incessantly at his drawings and the pictures
which were making it possible for him eventually to produce his
masterpiece, "The Embarkment for Cythera." Always dissatisfied with his
work, he did not ratify his election to the Academy by sending in his
diploma picture until 1717. The patience of the Academy being exhausted,
he was reminded of the rule that each newly elected member must present
a picture. In a brilliant dash he finished "The Embarkment for Cythera,"
which was accepted on August 28, 1717, as his _pièce de reception_.
No longer was there poverty to contend with. Success followed success.
The Academy had set its seal upon him. Everybody wanted Watteaus. In
1716, the year before he sent in his _pièce de reception_, he had gone
to live with M. de Crozat, whose beautiful house in the Rue Richelieu
and his country mansion at Montmorency were filled with works of the old
masters, drawings and paintings. We are told that Crozat possessed four
hundred pictures of the Venetian and Flemish schools, thousands of
drawings, of which two hundred and twenty-nine were by Rubens, one
hundred and twenty-nine by Van Dyck, one hundred and six by Veronese,
and one hundred and thirteen by Titian. In these luxurious houses of his
admiring friend and patron, Watteau might have lived with delight and
profit. The park of the country house at Montmorency became the
background which inspired his Pastorals, the perfection of his art; this
perfection the study of the old masters aided somewhat, no doubt, but
Watteau was now master himself, and in knowing them confronted his
peers. Here too, for the first time, he met his models as an
equal--untrammelled. This man of "medium height and insignificant
appearance," whose eyes showed "neither talent nor liveliness," was on
familiar and friendly terms with the company gathered at M. de Crozat's
house--ladies of fashion, from whom in old days he tried to steal for
his note-book a line of neck, a turn of wrist, furtively and hastily,
asked nothing better than to be party to his pictures in gardens gay
with mondaines, male and female. He observed and painted. We can almost
hear the frou-frou of their garments in his pictures.
M. de Julienne, another patron, was full of enthusiasm and eager to
possess his works; it was for him that Watteau painted the replica,
carried farther and more finished, of the "Embarkment for Cythera,"
which is now at Potsdam. All the world smiled upon Watteau, but the
world's favours only made the more capricious and melancholy this
incurable brooder over the unattainable. Loving no woman as he loved his
art, he longed for tenderness, yet was afraid of it. Cold, shy,
fastidious, reserved, ill, he shunned society now that it sought him,
and drugged himself with work as a refuge from ennui and from nostalgia
for no earthly country.
He left M. de Crozat's house, independence being more vital to him than
luxury, and found a companion in Nicolas Vleughels, whom he had met at
M. de Julienne's. The two lived together until 1718. Once more the
desire for solitude assailed him. M. de Julienne, who seems always to
have been his devoted friend, admonished the ailing painter and begged
him to be more careful about his material welfare, as indeed all his
other friends did, to whom he retorted, "At the worst there is the
hospital; no one is refused there!" His friends advised him to travel.
Of all places he chose London, and arrived on these shores in 1719,
finding lodgings at Greenwich.
In London his physician, Dr. Mead, presented him to the king, for whom
he painted four pictures, which are now at Buckingham Palace. His health
showed no improvement, and the English climate aggravated his illness.
In a letter to Gersaint he wrote of "_Le mauvais air qui regne à Londres
à cause de la vapeur du charbon de terre dont on fait usage_."
Dr. Mead, aware no doubt that his condition was hopeless, advised him to
return to Paris. This he did, and settled in the house of Gersaint,
son-in-law to Sirois, for whom he painted the delightful picture called
"Gersaint's Sign,"--"just to limber up his fingers," as he expressed it.
Restlessness again seized him. He believed that he would recover in the
country. His friend the Abbé Haranger asked M. le Fèvre to find him
accommodation in a house at Nogent, and thither he went in 1721.
But the end was near, and Watteau, realising it, proceeded to set his
house in order and to make amends for his shortcomings of friendship and
of temper, the importance of which the dying man magnified. He sent for
his townsman and pupil, Pater, asked forgiveness for having in the
past retarded his advancement through fear of rivalry, and made ample
amends by giving Pater daily instruction and revealing to him his
intimate knowledge of his craft. Pater said, after Watteau's death, that
this was "the only fruitful teaching he had ever received." His townsman
no doubt brought back to the dying painter thoughts of home. Ever
hopeful, like all consumptives, he was sure that a change of air would
cure him!
[Illustration: PLATE IV.--THE EMBARKMENT FOR CYTHERA
(In the Louvre, Paris)
In 1717 Watteau finished, after a long delay, his _pièce de reception_
for the Academy, the famous first study for "The Embarkment for
Cythera." This picture was painted in seven days, and elaborated, but
hardly improved, in the Potsdam version. Behold these ethereal and
butterfly pilgrims of love preparing lackadaisically to be wafted in the
ship with the rose-coloured sail to the abode of Venus. On those lovely
shores they will find no continuing city. Watteau knows that.]
He instructed Gersaint to sell everything, and to make preparations for
the journey home. He made the journey home, but not to Valenciennes. He
died suddenly in Gersaint's arms on July 18, 1721.
He was artist to the end. "Take away that crucifix," he said to the
priest; "it pains me. How could an artist dare to treat my Master so
shockingly." It is said that one of the last remarks of this sensitive,
ill-balanced, disease-stricken man of genius was to beg the Abbé
Haranger to forgive him for having used his face and figure for his
picture of "Gilles."
So at the age of thirty-seven he escaped finally from reality--that
reality which his art had always avoided so delightfully and so
convincingly.
II
HIS ART
Watteau's art appeals to everybody, and fascinates all who study it
attentively. The lovely decorative pictures tell their own story; and
for those who require more than a story in a picture, there is his
craftsmanship, his originality, his personality; the delight of
comparing one alluring achievement with another, and the interest in
noting the inferiority of his followers--Lancret, Pater, and the
rest--who annexed his manner but who could not annex the flame of his
genius. Visit the Dulwich Gallery, study and enjoy Watteau's "Ball under
a Colonnade," then go to Hertford House and examine Pater's copy of
Watteau's "Ball." The fire of genius and glory of colour are gone. It is
as stolid as Paul Potter's "Bull."
I have an especial affection for "The Ball under a Colonnade" at
Dulwich; for until the regal gift of Hertford House to the nation, with
its nine Watteaus, this little "Ball under a Colonnade," and in a
lesser degree its companion picture at Dulwich, a "Fête Champêtre," were
my first wanderings in the lyric land of Watteau. The National Gallery
which, before the present Director came into office, treated the French
school with an indifference that almost amounted to disdain, does not
possess a single Watteau. Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Cambridge own examples
of varying merit, and there is one in that treasure-house of rare and
strange things, Sir John Soane's Museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields. It is
probable that the nation possesses yet another example. "A Watteau in
the Jones' Collection" was the surprising heading of an article in a
recent number of the _Burlington Magazine_ by Mr. Claude Phillips, who
claims that the little Watteau-like picture called "The Swing" in the
Jones' Collection at South Kensington is a veritable Watteau.
Germany is rich in Watteaus, with ten at Potsdam and five in Berlin.
France, which should be the richest, is poorer in number and importance
than either Germany or England, although there are ten examples in the
Louvre, including the original "Embarkment for Cythera,"
"L'Indifférent," and "Jupiter and Antiope."
[Illustration: PLATE V.--JUPITER AND ANTIOPE
(In the Louvre, Paris)
"Jupiter and Antiope" suggests Titian and Rubens filtered through
Watteau. This nude studied from life, not painted from his drawings, is
more laboured than his other pictures, but the loss of spontaneity in
the colour is compensated by the truth and beauty of the abandon of the
beautiful limbs in repose. Brown Jupiter, blonde Venus--no attenuation
of the truth here--lights loaded, browns rich with pearly reflections on
the fair skin.]
Let us return for a moment to "The Ball under a Colonnade" at Dulwich,
which from its own inherent charm and from its position in that quiet
and reposeful gallery may fitly serve as an introduction to the art of
Watteau. Take a chair--they permit it at Dulwich--and seat yourself
before it. The picture has suffered, alas! somewhat from Time, which has
almost obliterated the fairy-like fountain. But how charming the picture
is still; how gracious and debonair are the two dancing figures; how
fascinating the broken colour in the woman's green-striped, rose skirt
and in the man's blue butterfly dress. There are seventy-three figures
in the small canvas, 1 ft. 7-3/4 in. by 2 ft. 1/4 in. You can almost
hear the musicians playing, the fall of water from the fading fountain,
the rustle of leaves, and the ripple of laughter. Think of the painters,
dead and gone, who have loved this "Ball under a Colonnade." Constable
was one of them. He was not afraid to praise a picture when he liked it.
Listen to this--Constable's criticism of a copy that Leslie had made of
Watteau's "Ball." He asked Constable what he thought of the copy,
and the great man answered:--
"Your copy looks colder than the original, which seems as if painted in
honey--so mellow, so tender, so soft, and so delicious; so I trust yours
will be; but be satisfied if you but touch the hem of his garment, for
this inscrutable and exquisite thing would vulgarise even Rubens and
Paul Veronese."
The amount of work done by Watteau, accused by his friend De Caylus of
idleness, was enormous. A chronological list is almost impossible,
because many of his works are lost or were destroyed during the
Revolution.
Watteau painted anything and everything, during his connection with
Gillot and Audran, from pictures to powder-boxes, never considering that
his art was too high and lofty for the embellishment of any object
suitable for painting upon. His work may be divided into three classes:
first manner--Italian Comedy and decorative work; second--Military
Scenes; third and finest manner--The Pastorals.
As a boy he produced some military pictures, and he reverted to them
while with Audran. It is difficult to place chronologically any given
subject, for while we may arbitrarily classify a picture as belonging to
one period or another, his Italian Comedy scenes, belonging to the first
period, persisted to the end.
With the exception of his boyish endeavours, inspired by Teniers before
he visited Paris, his first manner was almost entirely decorative, and
included paintings on screens, coach panels, and furniture. The military
pictures belong to a short period dating from his success in selling
them to Sirois and their approval by the Academy. They are few in
number--thirteen only were engraved.
The year 1712 was the beginning of his recognition and the end of
poverty. Between this date and 1716 he produced his marvellous nudes. Of
all Watteau's pictures the nudes seem undoubtedly to have been painted
from Nature and not from drawings. They are too true to life, too well
observed. All his other pictures, even the greatest of his Pastorals,
have the air of being imagined. His drawings were his documents, and
these, like the nudes, were of course made direct from Nature. The
fantasy of his pictures is founded on fact, but it is fantasy which sees
only what it wishes to see--the rhythmic line, the rainbow colour, the
happy melancholy.
The year 1716 was big with significance to Watteau; he awoke in his own
land--dream-land of his Pastorals. Then he began to live, and there were
before him but five short years of life. He never again left this land
of fantasy--except when, on his return from London, he painted
"Gersaint's Sign," that model of modishness and grace, painted in eight
mornings, representing Gersaint's shop where _élégantes_ buy
masterpieces from shop-keepers as elegant as themselves. This picture,
which is now in the possession of the German Emperor, has for some
mysterious reason been divided into two portions.
In 1717, as I have related, he finished after a long delay his _pièce de
reception_ for the Academy, the famous first study for the "Embarkment
for Cythera." What can be said of this picture, or of the more finished
replica at Potsdam, that has not already been said a score of times? It
is referred to and described in the Prologue to this book as one of his
significant pictures. It moves in a rhythm of life, of love, of colour;
rose reds, golden yellows, faint purples, greys of every gamut, meeting
and melting--one perfect whole, and over all is a lingering regret of "I
know not what." This picture was painted in seven days, and elaborated,
but hardly improved, in the Potsdam version.
Turn from this consummate work to his early "La Vraie Gaieté," inspired
by Teniers, which in essence is the same picture as "The Ball under a
Colonnade" at Dulwich, and even the "Amusements Champêtres" and the
"Champs Elysées" at Hertford House. The clothes are changed, the
handling has become lighter and more accomplished--that is all. The
observer, that saturnine, detached, cynical figure, who appears in so
many of Watteau's pictures, is already present in "La Vraie Gaieté."
'This solitary figure is, as I have already said, the symbol of Watteau
himself, ever aloof, ever contemptuous, even when sharing in the scenic
world of Watteau, where life, if not really true, is certainly not
false. His people are lotus-eaters, who are come to a land where it is
always afternoon, where "the charmed sunset lingered low adown in the
red west... and many a winding vale and meadow, set with slender
galingale." A mild melancholy possesses the inhabitants of this
dream-world, for they are happy and yet a little sad, musing on what can
never be. Through this dream-world "L'Indifférent" trips lightly,
typical of Watteau, rainbow-hued, mercurial, his indifference assumed,
not troubling to conceal the sad thoughtfulness that lurks in his
expression. We do not believe in his snapping fingers and his jaunty
air. What colour are his beautiful garments? Rosy white, greeny white,
lavendar white with rose red knots, and rose red mantle lined with
bluebell blue, white frills falling over the sensitive hands, his
butterfly decorations rustling as he passes--"L'Indifférent." The
technique of the picture, in its modern chromatic use of colour, is
marvellous. The hues of the rainbow meander through it all. Who can
describe Watteau's colour or his fashion of trickling on the paint, as
fascinating in its way as the method of Frans Hals, whose seduction is
"the way he paints," not what he paints? Hals, the great master of
character, frank, open, plebeian, is akin in technique to Watteau. What
æsthetic joy these masters of technique give us as we study the
manipulation of their paint. Hals flicks on his ruffles frankly,
joyously--brutally. Watteau, seemingly just for joy in the colour,
trickles--there is no other word for it--one luscious colour over
another, like liquid jewels embedded in gold. One may stand for hours at
Hertford House in front of any of his pictures and quite forget the
subject in delight of the workmanship.
Consider "The Music Lesson." In colour it is rose and white. The man's
garments are neither rose, nor white, nor yellow, and yet they are all
three. The rose of the woman's rosette repeats the carmines of her
complexion. The composition is charming. The movement, pose, and costume
of the players is the same as the musicians in the "Musical Party," also
at Hertford House. Delightful too in "Gilles and His Family." Gilles is
dressed in thin, white, supple satin, lined with rose and striped with
faint blue, and his white mantle is lined with blue. The dark bias of
the guitar binds the group of people together, all of whom it touches or
crosses. A seated woman nurses a little black and white dog, while a
child nestles up to her, peeping beneath the guitar; the faces are more
alert and smiling than usual, and the picture, although less pearly than
"The Music Lesson," is not less beautiful in colour.
"Jupiter and Antiope" at the Louvre suggests Titian and Rubens filtered
through Watteau. This nude studied from life, not painted from his
drawings, is more laboured than his other pictures, but the loss of
spontaneity in the colour is compensated by the truth and beauty of the
abandon of the beautiful limbs in repose. Brown Jupiter, blonde
Venus--no attenuation of the truth here--lights loaded, browns rich,
with pearly reflections on the fair skin.
The attribution of the delightful "Pastoral" at the Louvre, although
generally accepted, has been questioned. The elegant little lady
shepherdess is in rose red, a red that seems to belong only to Velazquez
and to Watteau; she sits watching, not the flock of one sheep and one
wondering dog, no! she is listening to the Arcadian shepherd playing his
flute. Very Watteau-like is the landscape.
Turn from these little works to the larger pictures, such as "The Return
from the Chase," painted for his patron M. de Julienne towards the end
of his life--a marvel of rhythmic line and tone; and to "Les Amusements
Champêtres"--a bouquet of colour like no other colour, old rose, old
blue, silvery yellow, prune purple, all partaking one of the other. In
the distance people are sitting and standing and dancing in colours
unrivalled.
So we may pass through the whole range of his production finding
constantly some new surprise of colour, some new mastery in the weaving
of his webs. Call Watteau, if you like, a painter of the frivolous side
of life, but you must also call him one of the few originals whose
pictures vivify because they stimulate, and because they excite interest
in his method which marked a new epoch in art. "We consider Watteau,"
says his countryman, M. Camille Mauclair, "the most original and most
representative master of French art; Watteau, Delacroix, and Monet are
the three beacons of that art."
[Illustration: PLATE VI.--THE FOUNTAIN
(In the Wallace Collection)
One of his smaller pictures, 17-1/2 ins. high by 13-1/4 wide, called
also "La Cascade." It attracts attention by reason of the somewhat
theatrical way in which the dainty silhouette of the figures is set
against the opening between the trees. But how charming are these
figures bathed in light and mirrored in the pool that ripples at their
feet.]
III
HIS PLACE IN ART: PREDECESSORS AND INFLUENCE
If I were asked what new thing Watteau gave to the world, I would answer
that he humanised the art of his country and century, and drew men
from pomposity to his own intimate and dream-like reality under the
symbols of gallantry and masquerade. He was also the pioneer of
impressionism, the discoverer of the decomposition of tones, and the
link, to quote M. Mauclair, that connects Ruysdael and Claude Lorrain
with Turner, Monticelli, and Claude Monet.
The eighteenth century in France which he inaugurated is a sunlit garden
full of flowers compared to a cold court in some prison palace, to which
the seventeenth century of academic imitation of the lesser Italians may
be likened. Correct, pompous, lifeless, Le Brun, Le Sueur, and his other
forerunners, have left us little but a sense of boredom, a warning how
not to paint, and the assurance that, unless a school is founded on a
personal study of Nature, that school dies with its founder. The
decadence of Italian art is said to date from Raphael. Certain it is
that bombastic art dates from the greatest artist--Michelangelo. The
father of the chromo is Correggio.
Watteau, a "little master," as some are pleased to call him, has had an
influence on art that persists to-day, an influence intimate and human.
Certainly he made life more beautiful. Departing for Cythera with
Watteau's dames and gallants means more to us of intelligence in art
than acres of classic pictures of gods, temples and heroes untouched by
the warmth of personality and incisiveness of observation. We are
fatigued and unconvinced in the rooms at the Louvre devoted to Le
Sueur's series of pictures depicting the life of St. Bruno. We are glad
before the little earnest portraits of Corneille, Clouet, and Fouquet
hanging in the next room. The love of beauty and the simple religion of
the Primitives is transferred to us. We feel it to be true that "Nothing
can wash the balm from an anointed king," in looking at the portrait of
Charles I., king, dandy, and gentleman, touched as it is with Van Dyck's
great gift of personal vision; but Le Sueur and Le Brun say nothing,
except perhaps to make us grudge the wall space their pictures occupy.
Watteau is the lure that led France back to Nature; his real-unreal
pleasances are the gardens where grew the flowers (slips from older
stock, if you will) called Modern Movement, Impressionism, and
Pointillism. "The Embarkment for Cythera" has been called the first
impressionist picture. Once again through Watteau the natural art of the
North prevailed over the art of the South as in the time of the
Burgundian Franco-Flemish renaissance.
Watteau is true successor to his masters Teniers and Rubens. Teniers'
subjects may be said to persist to the end of his short but full
artistic life, and his _Fêtes Galantes_, those perfect expressions of
his matured art, are Teniers' subjects made his own; but the uncouth
Flemish peasants become graceful dames and gallants. Teniers' boors
rollick through the day and night boisterously, leaving nothing for
to-morrow, unless it be a headache. Watteau's dames and gallants are
touched with happy melancholy. Their light malady of heartache for
unattained desires is obviously more beautiful pictorially than the
headaches of hilarious boors.
Your true artist has delicate _antennæ_ and is sensitive to everything
that he sees and feels; but when he retires within himself, the memory
of all that he felt, of warmth or cold, fine or unfine, returns to him.
The influence of many men Watteau felt. I place them in the order of
their influence--Teniers, Rubens, Gillot, Audran, Titian, and Veronese.
The example of each taught him something, but the artist in him selected
ingredients of their genius and combined them into a new and original
one--his own.
The wholesome influence of Rubens on painters has been enormous. He did
not make imitators, but he inspired many great men to "get the look of
their own eyes," not the look of his; robust, normal, and generous of
nature, the contagion of his truth is so immediate that all who come in
contact with it must look at Nature unblinkingly, and receive a fresh
impulse from his bravery. Velazquez was a better painter after he had
talked and worked on the hillside above the Escorial with Rubens; Van
Dyck was his pupil, and Watteau is of his artistic progeny. The feminine
taste of Velazquez, Van Dyck, and Watteau was made more virile by
contact with Rubens, whose taste many of us may condemn, and whose
influence for good we are so apt to overlook.
From Titian Watteau borrowed warmth, and from Veronese coolness of
colour; Gillot, the decorative painter, showed him his own inherent
power; Audran, too, helped him, and the Luxembourg Gardens and Gallery
aided his artistic development.
No doubt the great artist might be shut in a cell, and still his genius
would bring forth its work unnourished by influence or propinquity to
other talents; it might even show a rarer quality. But ninety-nine in a
hundred derive from their forebears, and it is interesting to follow the
career of a great man, to pursue the influences that formed him, and to
see in the end how his individuality asserted itself. It were churlish
in any student and lover of Watteau not to know and acknowledge the
happy effect upon him of the masters he admired.
Watteau was of Flemish origin, for Valenciennes, where he was born,
became French only seven years before his birth. Conquest cannot in
seven years change the characteristics of a people. Watteau's art is
consequently distinctly Flemish, but modified by French taste; he became
an artistic composite of Flemish technical sanity and French
intelligence and fervour. He was an exotic that shot up in the
forcing-house of his exacting genius, extracting vitality from Rubens
the fertiliser, inspiration from Teniers, colour from Titian and
Veronese, and encouragement from Gillot and Audran. Genius is a great
gift lent by Nature to the few; but Nature is inexorable in demanding
the return of the fruits of the gift, as if man were but a casket for
its safe keeping; when the end comes he must have proved his worth as
custodian, be the time long, as in the case of a Da Vinci or a
Michaelangelo, or short, as in the case of a Raphael or a Watteau.
The shorter the time given for the justification of the gift the
stronger often is the capacity for effort, so that the sum total of the
achievement of the short life often seems to exceed that of the long
life.
Michaelangelo lived to be very old. When this "greatest artist" died he
left his work unfinished. Raphael died young, but his achievement was
prodigious. Watteau's short sad life of illness and discontent produced
more than twelve hundred items.
Watteau began his artistic career influenced in technique by the
_petits toucheurs_, the sympathetic little masters of the Netherlands to
whom he was kin (M. de Julienne calls him in his catalogue "_peintre
Flamand de L'Academie Royale_"). Soon the big touch of Rubens intrudes
and the technique broadens; next Titian obsesses him, and the shadows
under the trees in the Luxembourg Gardens as he watches grow warmer to
the watcher, and colour begins to glow; Veronese intervenes, and cooler
tones are apparent--and these three great masters of breadth and truth,
of warmth and temperament, of chill stateliness, combine in the mind's
eye of Watteau. The pleasant places in the gardens of the Luxembourg are
peopled with ladies and gallants and "little ladies" and "little
gallants," and, as he walks and watches, Teniers' subjects flit across
his vision, and the forms of Rubens' rosy and ample matrons.
How would Titian have painted yonder dark woman of the warm colour and
deep red hair walking down the glade? The leaves on the trees rustle in
the summer air. Light flickers on silken frocks, cold reflections on
green. Something whispers to his discontent "paint the scene as you see
it," draw the lady sitting on the grass, her back toward you, in the
shot silk frock of bronze and green, and the other standing near, tall
and elegant, in rose and yellow. What colour is it? "The colour of a
sun-browned wood-nymph's thigh." And her hands behind her back. What
hands! "Hands must be better painted than heads, being more difficult."
Beyond in the gardens fountains and little children play; tall trees
throw shadows on beauty pouting, the indifferent lover tip-toes away,
not so indifferent as he would have the pouting one believe. There is
movement toward the gates of the Palace Gardens; children run tripping
over tiny dogs led by lute string ribbons; soldiers and music.
Watteau finds himself, not wholly perhaps, but the formative period has
passed. The artist is made; is himself, gives himself. No longer will
the classicists prevail; no longer will art be cold and eclectic. The
youth from Valenciennes will call Paris back to Nature, and through a
temperament will show the world familiar things, will let his
imagination play, taking his good where he finds it, but resolving
it into something that is his own. He will see with his own eyes. He
will paint pictures as he pleases.
[Illustration: PLATE VII.--FÊTE CHAMPÊTRE
(In the National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh)
Bleak Edinburgh is rich in the possession of this picture of dreamy
colour. The hour is sunset; the place is where you will, but the title,
"Fête Champêtre," suits the scene of dalliance quite as well as any
other name; a similar picture at Dresden is called by M. Mauclair "The
Terrace Party." You perceive here the typical Watteau figures, and
behind is a landscape that has all the idealistic charm of his rendering
of Nature.]
When Watteau, perhaps unknown to himself, resolved to be himself, a new
school was born in France, a school whose influence still prevails. We
are fond of taking credit to ourselves for the initiation of the modern
school of landscape. We remember with pride the day in 1824 when the
French Salon was illumined with three of Constable's pictures; we also
remember the acknowledgment by French painters of the inspiration of
Turner and Bonnington; but it would be interesting to follow back their
inspiration; and it would not be difficult to trace Monet's division of
tones and envelope of air to Watteau.
Influence in art and inspiration is a ball that is tossed back and
forth. If Constable, Turner, and Bonnington influenced the French school
they owe allegiance to Watteau, and through him to "the bull in art,"
Rubens, who was master to Van Dyck, the founder of the English school.
Does Gainsborough's lovely "Perdita" in the Wallace Collection owe
nothing of its exquisite femininity, sweet melancholy, and woodland
background, to Watteau? Constable and Turner were but paying old debts,
for the painter of the _Fêtes Galantes_ had shown the beauty of
landscape and made it something more than a setting
|
c'd,
Of like immensity, the starry Heaven:
That he might sheltering compass her around
On every side."
Hesiod (Elton's tr.).
[Sidenote: The egg myth.]
This version of the creation of the world, although but one of the
many current with the Greeks and Romans, was the one most generally
adopted; but another, also very popular, stated that the first
divinities, Erebus and Nyx, produced a gigantic egg, from which Eros,
the god of love, emerged to create the Earth.
"In the dreary chaotical closet
Of Erebus old, was a privy deposit,
By Night the primæval in secrecy laid;
A Mystical Egg, that in silence and shade
Was brooded and hatched; till time came about:
And Love, the delightful, in glory flew out."
Aristophanes (Frere's tr.).
[Sidenote: Mount Olympus and the river Oceanus.]
The Earth thus created was supposed by the ancients to be a disk,
instead of a sphere as science has proved. The Greeks fancied that
their country occupied a central position, and that Mount Olympus, a
very high mountain, the mythological abode of their gods, was placed
in the exact center. Their Earth was divided into two equal parts by
Pontus (the Sea,--equivalent to our Mediterranean and Black Seas); and
all around it flowed the great river Oceanus in a "steady, equable
current," undisturbed by storm, from which the Sea and all the rivers
were supposed to derive their waters.
[Sidenote: The Hyperboreans.]
The Greeks also imagined that the portion of the Earth directly north
of their country was inhabited by a fortunate race of men, the
Hyperboreans, who dwelt in continual bliss, and enjoyed a never-ending
springtide. Their homes were said to be "inaccessible by land or by
sea." They were "exempt from disease, old age, and death," and were so
virtuous that the gods frequently visited them, and even condescended
to share their feasts and games. A people thus favored could not fail
to be happy, and many were the songs in praise of their sunny land.
"I come from a land in the sun-bright deep,
Where golden gardens grow;
Where the winds of the north, becalm'd in sleep,
Their conch shells never blow.
"So near the track of the stars are we,
That oft, on night's pale beams,
The distant sounds of their harmony
Come to our ears, like dreams.
"The Moon, too, brings her world so nigh,
That when the night-seer looks
To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,
He can number its hills and brooks.
"To the Sun god all our hearts and lyres
By day, by night, belong;
And the breath we draw from his living fires
We give him back in song."
Moore.
[Sidenote: The Ethiopians and the Isles of the Blest.]
South of Greece, also near the great river Oceanus, dwelt another
nation, just as happy and virtuous as the Hyperboreans,--the
Ethiopians. They, too, often enjoyed the company of the gods, who
shared their innocent pleasures with great delight.
And far away, on the shore of this same marvelous river, according to
some mythologists, were the beautiful Isles of the Blest, where
mortals who had led virtuous lives, and had thus found favor in the
sight of the gods, were transported without tasting of death, and
where they enjoyed an eternity of bliss. These islands had sun, moon,
and stars of their own, and were never visited by the cold wintry
winds that swept down from the north.
"The Isles of the Blest, they say,
The Isles of the Blest,
Are peaceful and happy, by night and by day,
Far away in the glorious west.
"They need not the moon in that land of delight,
They need not the pale, pale star;
The sun is bright, by day and night,
Where the souls of the blessed are.
"They till not the ground, they plow not the wave,
They labor not, never! oh, never!
Not a tear do they shed, not a sigh do they heave,
They are happy, for ever and ever!"
Pindar.
[Sidenote: Uranus and Gæa.]
Chaos, Erebus, and Nyx were deprived of their power by Æther and
Hemera, who did not long enjoy the possession of the scepter; for
Uranus and Gæa, more powerful than their progenitors, soon forced them
to depart, and began to reign in their stead. They had not dwelt long
on the summit of Mount Olympus, before they found themselves the
parents of twelve gigantic children, the Titans, whose strength was
such that their father, Uranus, greatly feared them. To prevent their
ever making use of it against him, he seized them immediately after
their birth, hurled them down into a dark abyss called Tartarus, and
there chained them fast.
[Sidenote: Titans, Cyclopes, and Centimani.]
This chasm was situated far under the earth; and Uranus knew that his
six sons (Oceanus, Cœus, Crius, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Cronus), as
well as his six daughters, the Titanides (Ilia, Rhea, Themis, Thetis,
Mnemosyne, and Phœbe), could not easily escape from its cavernous
depths. The Titans did not long remain sole occupants of Tartarus, for
one day the brazen doors were again thrown wide open to admit the
Cyclopes,--Brontes (Thunder), Steropes (Lightning), and Arges
(Sheet-lightning),--three later-born children of Uranus and Gæa, who
helped the Titans to make the darkness hideous with their incessant
clamor for freedom. In due time their number was increased by the
three terrible Centimani (Hundred-handed), Cottus, Briareus, and Gyes,
who were sent thither by Uranus to share their fate.
Greatly dissatisfied with the treatment her children had received at
their father's hands, Gæa remonstrated, but all in vain. Uranus would
not grant her request to set the giants free, and, whenever their
muffled cries reached his ear, he trembled for his own safety. Angry
beyond all expression, Gæa swore revenge, and descended into Tartarus,
where she urged the Titans to conspire against their father, and
attempt to wrest the scepter from his grasp.
[Sidenote: The Titans revolt.]
All listened attentively to the words of sedition; but none were
courageous enough to carry out her plans, except Cronus, the youngest
of the Titans, more familiarly known as Saturn or Time, who found
confinement and chains peculiarly galling, and who hated his father
for his cruelty. Gæa finally induced him to lay violent hands upon his
sire, and, after releasing him from his bonds, gave him a scythe, and
bade him be of good cheer and return victorious.
Thus armed and admonished, Cronus set forth, came upon his father
unawares, defeated him, thanks to his extraordinary weapon, and, after
binding him fast, took possession of the vacant throne, intending to
rule the universe forever. Enraged at this insult, Uranus cursed his
son, and prophesied that a day would come when he, too, would be
supplanted by his children, and would suffer just punishment for his
rebellion.
[Illustration: FOUNTAIN OF CYBELE (RHEA). (Madrid.)]
[Sidenote: Cronus and Rhea.]
Cronus paid no heed to his father's imprecations, but calmly proceeded
to release the Titans, his brothers and sisters, who, in their joy and
gratitude to escape the dismal realm of Tartarus, expressed their
willingness to be ruled by him. Their satisfaction was complete,
however, when he chose his own sister Rhea (Cybele, Ops) for his
consort, and assigned to each of the others some portion of the world
to govern at will. To Oceanus and Thetis, for example, he gave charge
over the ocean and all the rivers upon earth; while to Hyperion and
Phœbe he intrusted the direction of the sun and moon, which the
ancients supposed were daily driven across the sky in brilliant golden
chariots.
Peace and security now reigned on and around Mount Olympus; and
Cronus, with great satisfaction, congratulated himself on the result
of his enterprise. One fine morning, however, his equanimity was
disturbed by the announcement that a son was born to him. The memory
of his father's curse then suddenly returned to his mind. Anxious to
avert so great a calamity as the loss of his power, he hastened to his
wife, determined to devour the child, and thus prevent him from
causing further annoyance. Wholly unsuspicious, Rhea heard him inquire
for his son. Gladly she placed him in his extended arms; but imagine
her surprise and horror when she beheld her husband swallow the babe!
[Sidenote: Birth of Jupiter.]
Time passed, and another child was born, but only to meet with the
same cruel fate. One infant after another disappeared down the
capacious throat of the voracious Cronus,--a personification of Time,
who creates only to destroy. In vain the bereaved mother besought the
life of one little one: the selfish, hard-hearted father would not
relent. As her prayers seemed unavailing, Rhea finally resolved to
obtain by stratagem the boon her husband denied; and as soon as her
youngest son, Jupiter (Jove, Zeus), was born, she concealed him.
Cronus, aware of his birth, soon made his appearance, determined to
dispose of him in the usual summary manner. For some time Rhea pleaded
with him, but at last pretended to yield to his commands. Hastily
wrapping a large stone in swaddling clothes, she handed it to Cronus,
simulating intense grief. Cronus was evidently not of a very inquiring
turn of mind, for he swallowed the whole without investigating the
real contents of the shapeless bundle.
"To th' imperial son of Heaven,
Whilom the king of gods, a stone she gave
Inwrapt in infant swathes; and this with grasp
Eager he snatch'd, and in his ravening breast
Convey'd away: unhappy! nor once thought
That for the stone his child behind remain'd
Invincible, secure; who soon, with hands
Of strength o'ercoming him, should cast him forth
From glory, and himself th' immortals rule."
Hesiod (Elton's tr.).
Ignorant of the deception practiced upon him, Cronus then took leave,
and the overjoyed mother clasped her rescued treasure to her breast.
It was not sufficient, however, to have saved young Jupiter from
imminent death: it was also necessary that his father should remain
unconscious of his existence.
[Sidenote: Jupiter's infancy.]
To insure this, Rhea intrusted her babe to the tender care of the
Melian nymphs, who bore him off to a cave on Mount Ida. There a goat,
Amalthea, was procured to act as nurse, and fulfilled her office so
acceptably that she was eventually placed in the heavens as a
constellation, a brilliant reward for her kind ministrations. To
prevent Jupiter's cries being heard in Olympus, the Curetes
(Corybantes), Rhea's priests, uttered piercing screams, clashed their
weapons, executed fierce dances, and chanted rude war songs.
The real significance of all this unwonted noise and commotion was not
at all understood by Cronus, who, in the intervals of his numerous
affairs, congratulated himself upon the cunning he had shown to
prevent the accomplishment of his father's curse. But all his anxiety
and fears were aroused when he suddenly became aware of the fraud
practiced upon him, and of young Jupiter's continued existence. He
immediately tried to devise some plan to get rid of him; but, before
he could put it into execution, he found himself attacked, and, after
a short but terrible encounter, signally defeated.
[Sidenote: Jupiter's supremacy.]
Jupiter, delighted to have triumphed so quickly, took possession of
the supreme power, and aided by Rhea's counsels, and by a nauseous
potion prepared by Metis, a daughter of Oceanus, compelled Cronus to
produce the unfortunate children he had swallowed; i.e., Neptune,
Pluto, Vesta, Ceres, and Juno.
Following the example of his predecessor, Jupiter gave his brothers
and sisters a fair share of his new kingdom. The wisest among the
Titans--Mnemosyne, Themis, Oceanus, and Hyperion--submitted to the new
sovereign without murmur, but the others refused their allegiance;
which refusal, of course, occasioned a deadly conflict.
"When gods began with wrath,
And war rose up between their starry brows,
Some choosing to cast Cronus from his throne
That Zeus might king it there, and some in haste
With opposite oaths that they would have no Zeus
To rule the gods forever."
E. B. Browning.
[Sidenote: The giants' war.]
Jupiter, from the top of Mount Olympus, discerned the superior number
of his foes, and, quite aware of their might, concluded that
reënforcements to his party would not be superfluous. In haste,
therefore, he released the Cyclopes from Tartarus, where they had
languished so long, stipulating that in exchange for their freedom
they should supply him with thunderbolts,--weapons which only they
knew how to forge. This new engine caused great terror and dismay in
the ranks of the enemy, who, nevertheless, soon rallied, and struggled
valiantly to overthrow the usurper and win back the sovereignty of the
world.
During ten long years the war raged incessantly, neither party wishing
to submit to the dominion of the other, but at the end of that time
the rebellious Titans were obliged to yield. Some of them were hurled
into Tartarus once more, where they were carefully secured by Neptune,
Jupiter's brother, while the young conqueror joyfully proclaimed his
victory.
"League all your forces then, ye powers above,
Join all, and try th' omnipotence of Jove:
Let down our golden everlasting chain,
Whose strong embrace holds heaven and earth and main:
Strive all, of mortal and immortal birth,
To drag, by this, the Thunderer down to earth,
Ye strive in vain! if I but stretch this hand,
I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land;
I fix the chain to great Olympus' height,
And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight!
For such I reign, unbounded and above;
And such are men and gods, compar'd to Jove."
Homer (Pope's tr.).
The scene of this mighty conflict was supposed to have been in
Thessaly, where the country bears the imprint of some great natural
convulsion; for the ancients imagined that the gods, making the most
of their gigantic strength and stature, hurled huge rocks at each
other, and piled mountain upon mountain to reach the abode of Jupiter,
the Thunderer.
"Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst,
My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove,
Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad
In vain emprise."
Lowell.
Saturn, or Cronus, the leader and instigator of the revolt, weary at
last of bloodshed and strife, withdrew to Italy, or Hesperia, where he
founded a prosperous kingdom, and reigned in peace for many long
years.
[Sidenote: Death of Typhœus.]
Jupiter, having disposed of all the Titans, now fancied he would enjoy
the power so unlawfully obtained; but Gæa, to punish him for depriving
her children of their birthright, created a terrible monster, called
Typhœus, or Typhon, which she sent to attack him. This Typhœus was a
giant, from whose trunk one hundred dragon heads arose; flames shot
from his eyes, nostrils, and mouths; while he incessantly uttered such
blood-curdling screams, that the gods, in terror, fled from Mount
Olympus and sought refuge in Egypt. In mortal fear lest this
terror-inspiring monster would pursue them, the gods there assumed the
forms of different animals; and Jupiter became a ram, while Juno, his
sister and queen, changed herself into a cow.
The king of the gods, however, soon became ashamed of his cowardly
flight, and resolved to return to Mount Olympus to slay Typhœus with
his terrible thunderbolts. A long and fierce struggle ensued, at the
end of which, Jupiter, again victorious, viewed his fallen foe with
boundless pride; but his triumph was very short-lived.
[Sidenote: Defeat of Enceladus.]
Enceladus, another redoubtable giant, also created by Gæa, now
appeared to avenge Typhœus. He too was signally defeated, and bound
with adamantine chains in a burning cave under Mount Ætna. In early
times, before he had become accustomed to his prison, he gave vent to
his rage by outcries, imprecations, and groans: sometimes he even
breathed forth fire and flames, in hopes of injuring his conqueror.
But time, it is said, somewhat cooled his resentment; and now he is
content with an occasional change of position, which, owing to his
huge size, causes the earth to tremble over a space of many miles,
producing what is called an earthquake.
"'Tis said, that thunder-struck Enceladus,
Groveling beneath the incumbent mountain's weight,
Lies stretched supine, eternal prey of flames;
And, when he heaves against the burning load,
Reluctant, to invert his broiling limbs,
A sudden earthquake shoots through all the isle,
And Ætna thunders dreadful under ground,
Then pours out smoke in wreathing curls convolved,
And shades the sun's bright orb, and blots out day."
Addison.
[Sidenote: Jupiter divides his realm.]
Jupiter had now conquered all his foes, asserted his right to the
throne, and could at last reign over the world undisturbed; but he
knew that it would be no small undertaking to rule well heaven,
earth, and sea, and resolved to divide the power with his brothers. To
avoid quarrels and recriminations, he portioned the world out into
lots, allowing each of his brothers the privilege of drawing his own
share.
Neptune thus obtained control over the sea and all the rivers, and
immediately expressed his resolve to wear a symbolic crown, composed
exclusively of marine shells and aquatic plants, and to abide within
the bounds of his watery realm.
Pluto, the most taciturn of the brothers, received for his portion the
scepter of Tartarus and all the Lower World, where no beam of sunlight
was ever allowed to find its way; while Jupiter reserved for himself
the general supervision of his brothers' estates, and the direct
management of Heaven and Earth.
Peace now reigned throughout all the world. Not a murmur was heard,
except from the Titans, who at length, seeing that further opposition
would be useless, grew reconciled to their fate.
In the days of their prosperity, the Titans had intermarried. Cronus
had taken Rhea "for better or for worse;" and Iapetus had seen, loved,
and wedded the fair Clymene, one of the ocean nymphs, or Oceanides,
daughters of Oceanus. The latter pair became the proud parents of four
gigantic sons,--Atlas, Menetius, Prometheus (Forethought), and
Epimetheus (Afterthought),--who were destined to play prominent parts
in Grecian mythology.
[Sidenote: Story of Prometheus.]
At the time of the creation, after covering the new-born Earth with
luxuriant vegetation, and peopling it with living creatures of all
kinds, Eros perceived that it would be necessary to endow them with
instincts which would enable them to preserve and enjoy the life they
had received. He therefore called the youngest two sons of Iapetus to
his aid, and bade them make a judicious distribution of gifts to all
living creatures, and create and endow a superior being, called Man,
to rule over all the others.
[Illustration: MINERVA AND PROMETHEUS.--Thorwaldsen. (Copenhagen.)]
Prometheus' and Epimetheus' first care was, very naturally, to provide
for the beings already created. These they endowed with such reckless
generosity, that all their favors were soon dispensed, and none
remained for the endowment of man. Although they had not the remotest
idea how to overcome this difficulty, they proceeded to fashion man
from clay.
"Prometheus first transmuted
Atoms culled for human clay."
Horace.
They first molded an image similar in form to the gods; bade Eros
breathe into its nostrils the spirit of life, and Minerva (Pallas)
endow it with a soul; whereupon man lived, and moved, and viewed his
new domain.
Justly proud of his handiwork, Prometheus observed man, and longed to
bestow upon him some great power, unshared by any other creature of
mortal birth, which would raise him far above all other living beings,
and bring him nearer to the perfection of the immortal gods. Fire
alone, in his estimation, could effect this; but fire was the special
possession and prerogative of the gods, and Prometheus knew they would
never willingly share it with man, and that, should any one obtain it
by stealth, they would never forgive the thief. Long he pondered the
matter, and finally determined to obtain fire, or die in the attempt.
One dark night, therefore, he set out for Olympus, entered unperceived
into the gods' abode, seized a lighted brand, hid it in his bosom, and
departed unseen, exulting in the success of his enterprise. Arrived
upon earth once more, he consigned the stolen treasure to the care of
man, who immediately adapted it to various purposes, and eloquently
expressed his gratitude to the benevolent deity who had risked his own
life to obtain it for him.
"Of Prometheus, how undaunted
On Olympus' shining bastions
His audacious foot he planted,
Myths are told and songs are chanted,
Full of promptings and suggestions.
"Beautiful is the tradition
Of that flight through heavenly portals,
The old classic superstition
Of the theft and the transmission
Of the fire of the Immortals."
Longfellow.
From his lofty throne on the topmost peak of Mount Olympus Jupiter
beheld an unusual light down upon earth. Anxious to ascertain its
exact nature, he watched it closely, and before long discovered the
larceny. His anger then burst forth, terrible to behold; and the gods
all quailed when they heard him solemnly vow he would punish the
unhappy Prometheus without mercy. To seize the offender in his mighty
grasp, bear him off to the Caucasian Mountains, and bind him fast to a
great rock, was but a moment's work. There a voracious vulture was
summoned to feast upon his liver, the tearing of which from his side
by the bird's cruel beak and talons caused the sufferer intense
anguish. All day long the vulture gorged himself; but during the cool
night, while the bird slept, Prometheus' suffering abated, and the
liver grew again, thus prolonging the torture, which bade fair to have
no end.
Disheartened by the prospect of long years of unremitting pain,
Prometheus at times could not refrain from pitiful complaints; but
generation after generation of men lived on earth, and died, blessing
him for the gift he had obtained for them at such a terrible cost.
After many centuries of woe, Hercules, son of Jupiter and Alcmene,
found Prometheus, killed the vulture, broke the adamantine chains, and
liberated the long-suffering god.
[Sidenote: Story of Epimetheus and Pandora.]
The first mortals lived on earth in a state of perfect innocence and
bliss. The air was pure and balmy; the sun shone brightly all the
year; the earth brought forth delicious fruit in abundance; and
beautiful, fragrant flowers bloomed everywhere. Man was content.
Extreme cold, hunger, sickness, and death were unknown. Jupiter, who
justly ascribed a good part of this beatific condition to the gift
conferred by Prometheus, was greatly displeased, and tried to devise
some means to punish mankind for the acceptance of the heavenly fire.
With this purpose in view, he assembled the gods on Mount Olympus,
where, in solemn council, they decided to create woman; and, as soon
as she had been artfully fashioned, each one endowed her with some
special charm, to make her more attractive.
"The crippled artist-god,
Illustrious, molded from the yielding clay
A bashful virgin's image, as advis'd
Saturnian Jove.
* * * * *
"But now when the fair mischief, seeming-good,
His hand had perfected, he led her forth
Exulting in her grac'd attire, the gift
Of Pallas, in the midst of gods and men.
On men and gods in that same moment seiz'd
The ravishment of wonder, when they saw
The deep deceit, th' inextricable snare."
Hesiod (Elton's tr.).
Their united efforts were crowned with the utmost success. Nothing was
lacking, except a name for the peerless creature; and the gods, after
due consideration, decreed she should be called Pandora. They then
bade Mercury take her to Prometheus as a gift from heaven; but he,
knowing only too well that nothing good would come to him from the
gods, refused to accept her, and cautioned his brother Epimetheus to
follow his example. Unfortunately Epimetheus was of a confiding
disposition, and when he beheld the maiden he exclaimed, "Surely so
beautiful and gentle a being can bring no evil!" and accepted her most
joyfully.
The first days of their union were spent in blissful wanderings, hand
in hand, under the cool forest shade; in weaving garlands of fragrant
flowers; and in refreshing themselves with the luscious fruit, which
hung so temptingly within reach.
[Illustration: PANDORA.--Sichel.]
One lovely evening, while dancing on the green, they saw Mercury,
Jupiter's messenger, coming towards them. His step was slow and weary,
his garments dusty and travel-stained, and he seemed almost to stagger
beneath the weight of a huge box which rested upon his shoulders.
Pandora immediately ceased dancing, to speculate with feminine
curiosity upon the contents of the chest. She nudged Epimetheus, and
in a whisper begged him to ask Mercury what brought him thither.
Epimetheus complied with her request; but Mercury evaded the question,
asked permission to deposit his burden in their dwelling for
safekeeping, professing himself too weary to convey it to its
destination that day, and promised to call for it shortly. The
permission was promptly granted. Mercury, with a sigh of relief,
placed the box in one corner, and then departed, refusing all
hospitable offers of rest and refreshment.
He had scarcely crossed the threshold, when Pandora expressed a strong
desire to have a peep at the contents of the mysterious box; but
Epimetheus, surprised and shocked, told her that her curiosity was
unseemly, and then, to dispel the frown and pout seen for the first
time on the fair face of his beloved, he entreated her to come out
into the fresh air and join in the merry games of their companions.
For the first time, also, Pandora refused to comply with his request.
Dismayed, and very much discouraged, Epimetheus sauntered out alone,
thinking she would soon join him, and perhaps by some caress atone for
her present willfulness.
Left alone with the mysterious casket, Pandora became more and more
inquisitive. Stealthily she drew near, and examined it with great
interest, for it was curiously wrought of dark wood, and surmounted by
a delicately carved head, of such fine workmanship that it seemed to
smile and encourage her. Around the box a glittering golden cord was
wound, and fastened on top in an intricate knot. Pandora, who prided
herself specially on her deft fingers, felt sure she could unfasten
it, and, reasoning that it would not be indiscreet to untie it if she
did not raise the lid, she set to work. Long she strove, but all in
vain. Ever and anon the laughing voices of Epimetheus and his
companions, playing in the luxuriant shade, were wafted in on the
summer breeze. Repeatedly she heard them call, and beseech her to join
them; yet she persisted in her attempt. She was just on the point of
giving it up in despair, when suddenly the refractory knot yielded to
her fumbling fingers, and the cord, unrolling, dropped on the floor.
Pandora had repeatedly fancied that sounds like whispers issued from
the box. The noise now seemed to increase, and she breathlessly
applied her ear to the lid to ascertain whether it really proceeded
from within. Imagine, therefore, her surprise when she distinctly
heard these words, uttered in the most pitiful accents: "Pandora, dear
Pandora, have pity upon us! Free us from this gloomy prison! Open,
open, we beseech you!"
Pandora's heart beat so fast and loud, that it seemed for a moment to
drown all other sounds. Should she open the box? Just then a familiar
step outside made her start guiltily. Epimetheus was coming, and she
knew he would urge her again to come out, and would prevent the
gratification of her curiosity. Precipitately, therefore, she raised
the lid to have one little peep before he came in.
Now, Jupiter had malignantly crammed into this box all the diseases,
sorrows, vices, and crimes that afflict poor humanity; and the box was
no sooner opened, than all these ills flew out, in the guise of horrid
little brown-winged creatures, closely resembling moths. These little
insects fluttered about, alighting, some upon Epimetheus, who had just
entered, and some upon Pandora, pricking and stinging them most
unmercifully. Then they flew out through the open door and windows,
and fastened upon the merrymakers without, whose shouts of joy were
soon changed into wails of pain and anguish.
Epimetheus and Pandora had never before experienced the faintest
sensation of pain or anger; but, as soon as these winged evil spirits
had stung them, they began to weep, and, alas! quarreled for the first
time in their lives. Epimetheus reproached his wife in bitterest terms
for her thoughtless action; but in the very midst of his vituperation
he suddenly heard a sweet little voice entreat for freedom. The sound
proceeded from the unfortunate box, whose cover Pandora had dropped
again, in the first moment of her surprise and pain. "Open, open, and
I will heal your wounds! Please let me out!" it pleaded.
The tearful couple viewed each other inquiringly, and listened again.
Once more they heard the same pitiful accents; and Epimetheus bade his
wife open the box and set the speaker free, adding very amiably, that
she had already done so much harm by her ill-fated curiosity, that it
would be difficult to add materially to its evil consequences, and
that, perchance, the box contained some good spirit, whose
ministrations might prove beneficial.
It was well for Pandora that she opened the box a second time, for the
gods, with a sudden impulse of compassion, had concealed among the
evil spirits one kindly creature, Hope, whose mission was to heal the
wounds inflicted by her fellow-prisoners.
"Hope sole remain'd within, nor took her flight,
Beneath the vessel's verge conceal'd from light."
Hesiod (Elton's tr.).
Lightly fluttering hither and thither on her snowy pinions, Hope
touched the punctured places on Pandora's and Epimetheus' creamy skin,
and relieved their suffering, then quickly flew out of the open
window, to perform the same gentle office for the other victims, and
cheer their downcast spirits.
Thus, according to the ancients, evil entered into the world, bringing
untold misery; but Hope followed closely in its footsteps, to aid
struggling humanity, and point to a happier future.
"Hope rules a land forever green:
All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay;
Clouds at her bidding disappear;
Points she to aught?--the bliss draws near,
And Fancy smooths the way."
Wordsworth.
[Illustration: HOPE.--Thorwaldsen.]
During many centuries, therefore, Hope continued to be revered,
although the other divinities had ceased to be worshiped.
According to another version, Pandora was sent down to man, bearing a
vase in which the evil spirits were imprisoned, and on the way, seized
by a fit of curiosity, raised the cover, and allowed them all to
escape.
[Sidenote: The Four Ages.]
Little by little the world was peopled; and the first years of man's
existence upon earth were, as we have seen, years of unalloyed
happiness. There was no occasion for labor, for the earth brought
forth spontaneously all that was necessary for man's subsistence.
"Innocence, virtue, and truth prevailed; neither were there any laws
to restrict men, nor judges to punish." This time of bliss has justly
borne the title of Golden Age, and the people in Italy then throve
under the wise rule of good old Saturn, or Cronus.
Unfortunately, nothing in this world is lasting; and the Golden Age
was followed by another, not quite so prosperous, hence called the
Silver Age, when the year was first divided into seasons, and men were
obliged to toil for their daily bread.
"Succeeding times a silver age behold,
Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold.
Then summer, autumn, winter, did appear,
And spring was but a season of the year;
The sun his annual course obliquely made,
Good days contracted, and enlarg'd the bad.
The air with sultry heats began to glow,
The wings of winds were clogg'd with ice and snow;
And shivering mortals into houses driven,
Sought shelter from the inclemency of heaven.
Those houses, then, were caves or homely sheds,
With twining osiers fenc'd, and moss their beds.
Then plows, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke,
And oxen labor'd first beneath the yoke."
Ovid (Dryden's tr.).
Yet, in spite of these few hardships, the people were happy, far
happier than their descendants during the Age of Brass, which
speedily followed, when strife became customary, and differences were
settled by blows.
But by far the worst of all was the Iron Age, when men's passions knew
no bounds, and they even dared refuse all homage to the immortal gods.
War was waged incessantly; the earth was saturated with blood; the
rights of hospitality were openly violated; and murder, rape, and
theft were committed on all sides.
[Sidenote: The Deluge.]
Jupiter had kept a close watch over men's actions during all these
years; and this evil conduct aroused his wrath to such a point, that
he vowed he would annihilate the human race. But the modes of
destruction were manifold, and, as he could not decide which would
eventually prove most efficacious, he summoned the gods to deliberate
and aid him by their counsels. The first suggestion offered, was to
destroy the world by fire, kindled by Jupiter's much-dreaded
thunderbolts; and the king of gods was about to put it into instant
execution, when his arm was stayed by the objection that the rising
flames
|
Harriett and Robin Lethbridge were walking up Black’s Lane. The hedges
were a white bridal froth of cow’s parsley. Every now and then she
swerved aside to pick the red campion.
He spoke suddenly. “Do you know what a dear little face you have, Hatty?
It’s so clear and still and it behaves so beautifully.”
“Does it?”
She thought of Prissie’s face, dark and restless, never clear, never
still.
“You’re not a bit like what I expected. Prissie doesn’t know what you
are. You don’t know yourself.”
“I know what _she_ is.”
His mouth’s uneven quiver beat in and out like a pulse.
“Don’t talk to me about Prissie!”
Then he got it out. He tore it out of himself. He loved her.
“Oh, Robin----” Her fingers loosened in her dismay; she went dropping
red campion.
It was no use, he said, to think about Prissie. He couldn’t marry her.
He couldn’t marry anybody but Hatty; Hatty must marry him.
“You can’t say you don’t love me, Hatty.”
No. She couldn’t say it; for it wouldn’t be true.
“Well, then----”
“I can’t. I’d be doing wrong, Robin. I feel all the time as if she
belonged to you; as if she were married to you.”
“But she isn’t. It isn’t the same thing.”
“To me it is. You can’t undo it. It would be too dishonorable.”
“Not half so dishonorable as marrying her when I don’t love her.”
“Yes. As long as she loves you. She hasn’t anybody but you. She was so
happy. So happy. Think of the cruelty of it. Think what we should send
her back to.”
“You think of Prissie. You don’t think of me.”
“Because it would _kill_ her.”
“How about you?”
“It can’t kill us, because we know we love each other. Nothing can take
that from us.”
“But I couldn’t be happy with her, Hatty. She wears me out. She’s so
restless.”
“_We_ couldn’t be happy, Robin. We should always be thinking of what we
did to her. How could we be happy?”
“You know how.”
“Well, even if we were, we’ve no right to get our happiness out of her
suffering.”
“Oh, Hatty, why are you so good, so good?”
“I’m not good. It’s only--there are some things you can’t do. We
couldn’t. We couldn’t.”
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t suppose we could. Whatever it’s like
I’ve got to go through with it.”
He didn’t stay that night.
She was crouching on the floor beside her father, her arm thrown across
his knees. Her mother had left them there.
“Papa--do you know?”
“Your mother told me.... You’ve done the right thing.”
“You don’t think I’ve been cruel? He said I didn’t think of him.”
“Oh, no, you couldn’t do anything else.”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t. It was no use thinking about him. Yet night
after night, for weeks and months, she thought, and cried herself to
sleep.
By day she suffered from Lizzie’s sharp eyes and Sarah’s brooding pity
and Connie Pennefather’s callous, married stare. Only with her father
and mother she had peace.
VI
Towards spring Harriett showed signs of depression, and they took her to
the south of France and to Bordighera and Rome. In Rome she recovered.
Rome was one of those places you ought to see; she had always been
anxious to do the right thing. In the little Pension in the Via Babuino
she had a sense of her own importance and the importance of her father
and mother. They were Mr. and Mrs. Hilton Frean, and Miss Harriett
Frean, seeing Rome.
After their return in the summer he began to write his book, _The Social
Order_. There were things that had to be said; it did not much matter
who said them provided they were said plainly. He dreamed of a new
Social State, society governing itself without representatives. For a
long time they lived on the interest and excitement of the book, and
when it came out Harriett pasted all his reviews very neatly into
an album. He had the air of not taking them quite seriously; but he
subscribed to _The Spectator_, and sometimes an article appeared there
understood to have been written by Hilton Frean.
And they went abroad again every year. They went to Florence and came
home and read _Romola_ and Mrs. Browning and Dante and _The Spectator_;
they went to Assisi and read the _Little Flowers of Saint Francis;_ they
went to Venice and read Ruskin and _The Spectator;_ they went to Rome
again and read Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. Harriett
said, “We should have enjoyed Rome more if we had read Gibbon,” and her
mother replied that they would not have enjoyed Gibbon so much if they
had not seen Rome. Harriett did not really enjoy him; but she enjoyed
the sound of her own voice reading out the great sentences and the
rolling Latin names.
She had brought back photographs of the Colosseum and the Forum and of
Botticelli’s _Spring_, and a della Robbia Madonna in a shrine of fruit
and flowers, and hung them in the drawing-room. And when she saw the
blue egg in its gilt frame standing on the marble-topped table, she
wondered how she had ever loved it, and wished it were not there. It had
been one of Mamma’s wedding presents. Mrs. Hancock had given it her; but
Mr. Hancock must have bought it.
Harriett’s face had taken on again its arrogant lift. She esteemed
herself justly. She knew she was superior to the Hancocks and the
Pennefathers and to Lizzie Pierce and Sarah Barmby; even to Priscilla.
When she thought of Robin and how she had given him up she felt a
thrill of pleasure in her beautiful behavior, and a thrill of pride in
remembering that he had loved her more than Priscilla. Her mind refused
to think of Robin married.
Two, three, five years passed, with a perceptible acceleration, and
Harriett was now thirty.
She had not seen them since the wedding day. Robin had gone back to his
own town; he was cashier in a big bank there. For four years Prissie’s
letters came regularly every month or so, then ceased abruptly.
Then Robin wrote and told her of Prissie’s illness. A mysterious
paralysis. It had begun with fits of giddiness in the street; Prissie
would turn round and round on the pavement; then falling fits; and now
both legs were paralyzed, but Robin thought she was gradually recovering
the use of her hands.
Harriett did not cry. The shock of it stopped her tears. She tried to
see it and couldn’t. Poor little Prissie. How terrible. She kept on
saying to herself she couldn’t bear to think of Prissie paralyzed. Poor
little Prissie.
And poor Robin----
Paralysis. She saw the paralysis coming between them, separating them,
and inside her the secret pain was soothed. She need not think of Robin
married any more.
She was going to stay with them. Robin had written the letter. He said
Prissie wanted her. When she met him on the platform she had a little
shock at seeing him changed. Changed. His face was fuller, and a dark
moustache hid the sensitive, uneven, pulsing lip. His mouth was dragged
down further at the corners. But he was the same Robin. In the cab,
going to the house, he sat silent, breathing hard; she felt the tremor
of his consciousness and knew that he still loved her; more than he
loved Priscilla. Poor little Prissie. How terrible!
Priscilla sat by the fireplace in a wheel chair. She became agitated
when she saw Harriett; her arms shook as she lifted them for the
embrace.
“Hatty--you’ve hardly changed a bit.” Her voice shook.
Poor little Prissie. She was thin, thinner than ever, and stiff as if
she had withered. Her face was sallow and dry, and the luster had gone
from her black hair. Her wide mouth twitched and wavered, wavered and
twitched. Though it was warm summer she sat by a blazing fire with the
windows behind her shut.
Through dinner Harriett and Robin were silent and constrained. She tried
not to see Prissie shaking and jerking and spilling soup down the front
of her gown. Robin’s face was smooth and blank; he pretended to be
absorbed in his food, so as not to look at Prissie. It was as if
Prissie’s old restlessness had grown into that ceaseless jerking
and twitching. And her eyes fastened on Robin; they clung to him and
wouldn’t let him go. She kept on asking him to do things for her.
“Robin, you might get me my shawl;” and Robin would go and get the shawl
and put it round her. Whenever he did anything for her Prissie’s face
would settle down into a quivering, deep content.
At nine o’clock he lifted her out of her wheel chair. Harriett saw his
stoop, and the taut, braced power of his back as he lifted. Prissie lay
in his arms with rigid limbs hanging from loose attachments, inert, like
a doll. As he carried her upstairs to bed her face had a queer, exalted
look of pleasure and of triumph.
Harriett and Robin sat alone together in his study.
“How long is it since we’ve seen each other?”
“Five years, Robin.”
“It isn’t. It can’t be.”
“It is.”
“I suppose it is. But I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m married.
I can’t believe Prissie’s ill. It doesn’t seem real with you sitting
there.”
“Nothing’s changed, Robin, except that you’re more serious.”
“Nothing’s changed, except that I’m more serious than ever.... Do you
still do the same things? Do you still sit in the curly chair, holding
your work up to your chin with your little pointed hands like a
squirrel? Do you still see the same people?”
“I don’t make new friends, Robin.”
He seemed to settle down after that, smiling at his own thoughts,
appeased....
Lying in her bed in the spare room, Harriett heard the opening and
shutting of Robin’s door. She still thought of Prissie’s paralysis
as separating them, still felt inside her a secret, unacknowledged
satisfaction. Poor little Prissie. How terrible. Her pity for Priscilla
went through and through her in wave after wave. Her pity was sad and
beautiful and at the same time it appeased her pain.
In the morning Priscilla told her about her illness. The doctors didn’t
understand it. She ought to have had a stroke and she hadn’t had one.
There was no reason why she shouldn’t walk except that she couldn’t. It
seemed to give her pleasure to go over it, from her first turning
round and round in the street (with helpless, shaking laughter at
the queerness of it), to the moment when Robin bought her the wheel
chair.... Robin... Robin...
“I minded most because of Robin. It’s such an _awful_ illness, Hatty.
I can’t move when I’m in bed. Robin has to get up and turn me a dozen
times in one night.... Robin’s a perfect saint. He does everything for
me.” Prissie’s voice and her face softened and thickened with voluptuous
content.
“... Do you know, Hatty, I had a little baby. It died the day it was
born.... Perhaps some day I shall have another.”
Harriett was aware of a sudden tightening of her heart, of a creeping
depression that weighed on her brain and worried it. She thought this
was her pity for Priscilla.
Her third night. All evening Robin had been moody and morose. He would
hardly speak to either Harriett or Priscilla. When Priscilla asked him
to do anything for her he got up heavily, pulling himself together with
a sigh, with a look of weary, irritated patience.
Prissie wheeled herself out of the study into the drawing-room,
beckoning Harriett to follow. She had the air of saving Robin from
Harriett, of intimating that his grumpiness was Harriett’s fault. “He
doesn’t want to be bothered,” she said.
She sat up till eleven, so that Robin shouldn’t be thrown with Harriett
in the last hours.
Half the night Harriett’s thoughts ran on, now in a darkness, now
in thin flashes of light. “Supposing, after all, Robin wasn’t happy?
Supposing he can’t stand it? Supposing.... But why is he angry with
_me?_” Then a clear thought: “He’s angry with me because he can’t be
angry with Priscilla.” And clearer. “He’s angry with me because I made
him marry her.”
She stopped the running and meditated with a steady, hard deliberation.
She thought of her deep, spiritual love for Robin; of Robin’s deep
spiritual love for her; of his strength in shouldering his burden. It
was through her renunciation that he had grown so strong, so pure, so
good.
Something had gone wrong with Prissie. Robin, coming home early on
Saturday afternoon, had taken Harriett for a walk. All evening and all
through Sunday it was Priscilla who sulked and snapped when Harriett
spoke to her.
On Monday morning she was ill, and Robin ordered her to stay in bed.
Monday was Harriett’s last night. Priscilla stayed in bed till six
o’clock, when she heard Robin come in; then she insisted on being
dressed and carried downstairs. Harriett heard her calling to Robin, and
Robin saying, “I _told_ you you weren’t to get up till to-morrow,” and a
sound like Prissie crying.
At dinner she shook and jerked and spilt things worse than ever. Robin
gloomed at her. “You know you ought to be in bed. You’ll go at nine.”
“If I go, you’ll go. You’ve got a headache.”
“I should think I had, sitting in this furnace.”
The heat of the dining room oppressed him, but they sat on there after
dinner because Prissie loved the heat. Robin’s pale, blank face had a
sick look, a deadly smoothness. He had to lie down on the sofa in the
window.
When the clock struck nine he sighed and got up, dragging himself as
if the weight of his body was more than he could bear. He stooped over
Prissie, and lifted her.
“Robin--you can’t. You’re dropping to pieces.”
“I’m all right.” He heaved her up with one tremendous, irritated effort,
and carried her upstairs, fast, as if he wanted to be done with it.
Through the open doors Harriett could hear Prissie’s pleading whine, and
Robin’s voice, hard and controlled. Presently he came back to her and
they went into his study. They could breathe there, he said.
They sat without speaking for a little time. The silence of Prissie’s
room overhead came between them.
Robin spoke first. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been very gay for you with poor
Prissie in this state.”
“Poor Prissie? She’s very happy, Robin.”
He stared at her. His eyes, round and full and steady, taxed her with
falsehood, with hypocrisy.
“You don’t suppose _I’m_ not, do you?”
“No.” There was a movement in her throat as though she swallowed
something hard. “No. I want you to be happy.”
“You don’t. You want me to be rather miserable.”
“_Robin!_” She contrived a sound like laughter. But Robin didn’t laugh;
his eyes, morose and cynical, held her there.
“That’s what you want.... At least I hope you do. If you didn’t----”
She fenced off the danger. “Do _you_ want _me_ to be miserable, then?”
At that he laughed out. “No. I don’t. I don’t care how happy you are.”
She took the pain of it: the pain he meant to give her.
That evening he hung over Priscilla with a deliberate, exaggerated
tenderness.
“Dear.... Dearest....” He spoke the words to Priscilla, but he sent
out his voice to Harriett. She could feel its false precision, its
intention, its repulse of her.
She was glad to be gone.
VII
Eighteen seventy-nine: it was the year her father lost his money.
Harriett was nearly thirty-five.
She remembered the day, late in November, when they heard him coming
home from the office early. Her mother raised her head and said,
“That’s your father, Harriett. He must be ill.” She always thought of
seventy-nine as one continuous November.
Her father and mother were alone in the study for a long time; she
remembered Annie going in with the lamp and coming out and whispering
that they wanted her. She found them sitting in the lamplight alone,
close together, holding each other’s hands; their faces had a strange,
exalted look.
“Harriett, my dear, I’ve lost every shilling I possessed, and here’s
your mother saying she doesn’t mind.”
He began to explain in his quiet voice. “When all the creditors are paid
in full there’ll be nothing but your mother’s two hundred a year. And
the insurance money when I’m gone.”
“Oh, Papa, how terrible----”
“Yes, Hatty.”
“I mean the insurance. It’s gambling with your life.”
“My dear, if that was all I’d gambled with----”
It seemed that half his capital had gone in what he called “the higher
mathematics of the game.” The creditors would get the rest.
“We shall be no worse off,” her mother said, “than we were when we
began. We were very happy then.”
“We. How about Harriett?”
“Harriett isn’t going to mind.”
“You’re not--going--to mind.... We shall have to sell this house and
live in a smaller one. And I can’t take my business up again.”
“My dear, I’m glad and thankful you’ve done with that dreadful,
dangerous game.”
“I’d no business to play it.... But, after holding myself in all those
years, there was a sort of fascination.”
One of the creditors, Mr. Hichens, gave him work in his office. He was
now Mr. Hichens’s clerk. He went to Mr. Hichens as he had gone to
his own great business, upright and alert, handsome in his dark-gray
overcoat with the black velvet collar, faintly amused at himself. You
would never have known that anything had happened.
Strange that at the same time Mr. Hancock should have lost money, a
great deal of money, more money than Papa. He seemed determined that
everybody should know it; you couldn’t pass him in the road without
knowing. He met you with his swollen, red face hanging; ashamed and
miserable, and angry as if it had been your fault.
One day Harriett came in to her father and mother with the news. “Did
you know that Mr. Hancock’s sold his horses? And he’s going to give up
the house.”
Her mother signed to her to be silent, frowning and shaking her head and
glancing at her father. He got up suddenly and left the room.
“He’s worrying himself to death about Mr. Hancock,” she said.
“I didn’t know he cared for him like that, Mamma.”
“Oh, well, he’s known him thirty years, and it’s a very dreadful thing
he should have to give up his house.”
“It’s not worse for him than it is for Papa.”
“It’s ever so much worse. He isn’t like your father. He can’t be happy
without his big house and his carriages and horses. He’ll feel so small
and unimportant.”
“Well, then, it serves him right.”
“Don’t say that. It _is_ what he cares for and he’s lost it.”
“He’s no business to behave as if it was Papa’s fault,” said Harriett.
She had no patience with the odious little man. She thought of her
father’s face, her father’s body, straight and calm, and his soul so far
above that mean trouble of Mr. Hancock’s, that vulgar shame.
Yet inside him he fretted. And, suddenly, he began to sink. He turned
faint after the least exertion and had to leave off going to Mr.
Hichens. And by the spring of eighteen eighty he was upstairs in his
room, too ill to be moved. That was just after Mr. Hichens had bought
the house and wanted to come into it. He lay, patient, in the big white
bed, smiling his faint, amused smile when he thought of Mr. Hichens.
It was awful to Harriett that her father should be ill, lying there
at their mercy. She couldn’t get over her sense of his parenthood, his
authority. When he was obstinate, and insisted on exerting himself, she
gave in. She was a bad nurse, because she couldn’t set herself against
his will. And when she had him under her hands to strip and wash him,
she felt that she was doing something outrageous and impious; she set
about it with a flaming face and fumbling hands. “Your mother does it
better,” he said gently. But she could not get her mother’s feeling of
him as a helpless, dependent thing.
Mr. Hichens called every week to inquire. “Poor man, he wants to know
when he can have his house. Why _will_ he always come on my good days?
He isn’t giving himself a chance.”
He still had good days, days when he could be helped out of bed to sit
in his chair. “This sort of game may go on for ever,” he said. He began
to worry seriously about keeping Mr. Hichens out of his house. “It isn’t
decent of me. It isn’t decent.”
Harriett was ill with the strain of it. She had to go away for a
fortnight with Lizzie Pierce, and Sarah Barmby stayed with her mother.
Mrs. Barmby had died the year before. When Harriett got back her father
was making plans for his removal.
“Why have you all made up your minds that it’ll kill me to remove me? It
won’t. The men can take everything out but me and my bed and that chair.
And when they’ve got all the things into the other house they can come
back for the chair and me. And I can sit in the chair while they’re
bringing the bed. It’s quite simple. It only wants a little system.”
Then, while they wondered whether they might risk it, he got worse. He
lay propped up, rigid, his arms stretched out by his side, afraid to
lift a hand because of the violent movements of his heart. His face had
a patient, expectant look, as if he waited for them to do something.
They couldn’t do anything. There would be no more rallies. He might die
any day now, the doctor said.
“He may die any minute. I certainly don’t expect him to live through the
night.”
Harriett followed her mother back into the room. He was sitting up in
his attitude of rigid expectancy; no movement but the quivering of his
night-shirt above his heart.
“The doctor’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?” he said.
Harriett was silent. She didn’t understand. Her mother was looking at
her with a serene comprehension and compassion.
“Poor Hatty,” he said, “she can’t tell a lie to save my life.”
“Oh--Papa----”
He smiled as if he was thinking of something that amused him.
“You should consider other people, my dear. Not just your own selfish
feelings.... You ought to write and tell Mr. Hichens.”
Her mother gave a short sobbing laugh. “Oh, you darling,” she said.
He lay still. Then suddenly he began pressing hard on the mattress with
both hands, bracing himself up in the bed. Her mother leaned closer
towards him. He threw himself over slantways, and with his head bent as
if it was broken, dropped into her arms.
Harriett wondered why he was making that queer grating and coughing
noise. Three times.
Her mother called softly to her--“Harriett.”
She began to tremble.
VIII
Her mother had some secret that she couldn’t share. She was wonderful
in her pure, high serenity. Surely she had some secret. She said he was
closer to her now than he had ever been. And in her correct, precise
answers to the letters of condolence Harriett wrote: “I feel that he is
closer to us now than he ever was.” But she didn’t really feel it. She
only felt that to feel it was the beautiful and proper thing. She looked
for her mother’s secret and couldn’t find it.
Meanwhile Mr. Hichens had given them six weeks. They had to decide where
they would go: into Devonshire or into a cottage at Hampstead where
Sarah Barmby lived now.
Her mother said, “Do you think you’d like to live in Sidmouth, near Aunt
Harriett?”
They had stayed one summer at Sidmouth with Aunt Harriett. She
remembered the red cliffs, the sea, and Aunt Harriett’s garden stuffed
with flowers. They had been happy there. She thought she would love
that: the sea and the red cliffs and a garden like Aunt Harriett’s.
But she was not sure whether it was what her mother really wanted. Mamma
would never say. She would have to find out somehow.
“Well--what do you think?”
“It would be leaving all your friends, Hatty.”
“My friends--yes. But----”
Lizzie and Sarah and Connie Pennefather. She could live without them.
“Oh, there’s Mrs. Hancock.”
“Well----” Her mother’s voice suggested that if she were put to it she
could live without Mrs. Hancock.
And Harriett thought: She does want to go to Sidmouth then.
“It would be very nice to be near Aunt Harriett.”
She was afraid to say more than that lest she should show her own wish
before she knew her mother’s.
“Aunt Harriett. Yes.... But it’s very far away, Hatty. We should be cut
off from everything. Lectures and concerts. We couldn’t afford to come
up and down.”
“No. We couldn’t.”
She could see that Mamma did not really want to live in Sidmouth;
she didn’t want to be near Aunt Harriett; she wanted the cottage at
Hampstead and all the things of their familiar, intellectual life going
on and on. After all, that was the way to keep near to Papa, to go on
doing the things they had done together.
Her mother agreed that it was the way.
“I can’t help feeling,” Harriett said, “it’s what he would have wished.”
Her mother’s face was quiet and content. She hadn’t guessed.
They left the white house with the green balcony hung out like a
birdcage at the side, and turned into the cottage at Hampstead. The
rooms were small and rather dark, and the furniture they had brought had
a squeezed-up, unhappy look. The blue egg on the marble-topped table
was conspicuous and hateful as it had never been in the Black’s Lane
drawing-room. Harriett and her mother looked at it.
“Must it stay there?”
“I think so. Fanny Hancock gave it me.”
“Mamma--you know you don’t like it.”
“No. But after all these years I couldn’t turn the poor thing away.”
Her mother was an old woman, clinging with an old, stubborn fidelity to
the little things of her past. But Harriett denied it. “She’s not old,”
she said to herself. “Not really old.”
“Harriett,” her mother said one day. “I think you ought to do the
housekeeping.”
“Oh, Mamma, why?” She hated the idea of this change.
“Because you’ll have to do it some day.”
She obeyed. But as she went her rounds and gave her orders she felt that
she was doing something not quite real, playing at being her mother
as she had played when she was a child. Then her mother had another
thought.
“Harriett, I think you ought to see more of your friends, dear.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll want them after I’m gone.”
“I shall never _want_ anybody but you.”
And their time went as it had gone before: in sewing together, reading
together, listening to lectures and concerts together. They had told
Sarah that they didn’t want anybody to call. They were Hilton Frean’s
wife and daughter. “After our wonderful life with him,” they said,
“you’ll understand, Sarah, that we don’t want people.” And if Harriett
was introduced to any stranger she accounted for herself arrogantly: “My
father was Hilton Frean.”
They were collecting his _Remains_ for publication.
Months passed, years passed, going each one a little quicker than the
last. And Harriett was thirty-nine.
One evening, coming out of church, her mother fainted. That was the
beginning of her illness, February, eighteen eighty-three. First came
the long months of weakness; then the months and months of sickness;
then the pain; the pain she had been hiding, that she couldn’t hide any
more.
They knew what it was now: that horrible thing that even the doctors
were afraid to name. They called it “something malignant.” When the
friends--Mrs. Hancock, Connie Pennefather, Lizzie, and Sarah--called to
inquire, Harriett wouldn’t tell them what it was; she pretended that she
didn’t know, that the doctors weren’t sure; she covered it up from them
as if it had been a secret shame. And they pretended that they didn’t
know. But they knew.
They were talking now about an operation. There was one chance for her
in a hundred if they had Sir James Pargeter: one chance. She might die
of it; she might die under the anæsthetic; she might die of shock; she
was so old and weak. Still, there was that one chance, if only she would
take it.
But her mother wouldn’t listen. “My dear, it would cost a hundred
pounds.”
“How do you know what it would cost?”
“Oh,” she said, “I know.” She was smiling above the sheet that was
tucked close up, tight under her chin, shutting it all down.
Sir James Pargeter would cost a hundred pounds. Harriett couldn’t lay
her hands on the money or on half of it or a quarter. “That doesn’t
matter if they think it’ll save you.”
“They _think;_ they think. But I _know._ I know better than all the
doctors.”
“But Mamma, darling----”
She urged the operation. Just because it would be so difficult to raise
the hundred pounds she urged it. She wanted to feel that she had done
everything that could be done, that she had let nothing stand in the
way, that she had shrunk from no sacrifice. One chance in a hundred.
What was a hundred pounds weighed against that one chance? If it had
been one in a thousand she would have said the same.
“It would be no good, Hatty. I know it wouldn’t. They just love to try
experiments, those doctors. They’re dying to get their knives into me.
Don’t _let_ them.”
Gradually, day by day, Harriett weakened. Her mother’s frightened
voice tore at her, broke her down. Supposing she really died under the
operation? Supposing---- It was cruel to excite and upset her just for
that; it made the pain worse.
Either the operation or the pain, going on and on, stabbing with sharper
and sharper knives; cutting in deeper; all their care, the antiseptics,
the restoratives, dragging it out, giving it more time to torture her.
When the three friends came, Harriett said, “I shall be glad and
thankful when it’s all over. I couldn’t want to keep her with me, just
for this.”
Yet she did want it. She was thankful every morning that she came to her
mother’s bed and found her alive, lying there, looking at her with her
wonderful smile. She was glad because she still had her.
And now they were giving her morphia. Under the torpor of the drug
her face changed; the muscles loosened, the flesh sagged, the widened,
swollen mouth hung open; only the broad beautiful forehead, the
beautiful calm eyebrows were the same; the face, sallow white, half
imbecile, was a mask flung aside. She couldn’t bear to look at it; it
wasn’t her mother’s face; her mother had died already under the morphia.
She had a shock every time she came in and found it still there.
On the day her mother died she told herself she was glad and thankful.
She met her friends with a little quiet, composed face, saying, “I’m
glad and thankful she’s at peace.” But she wasn’t thankful; she wasn’t
glad. She wanted her back again. And she reproached herself, one minute
for having been glad, and the next for wanting her.
She consoled herself by thinking of the sacrifices she had made, how she
had given up Sidmouth, and how willingly she would have paid the hundred
pounds.
“I sometimes think, Hatty,” said Mrs. Hancock, melancholy and condoling,
“that it would have been very different if your poor mother could have
had her wish.”
“What--what wish?”
“Her wish to live in Sidmouth, near your Aunt Harriett.”
And Sarah Barmby, sympathizing heavily, stopping short and brooding,
trying to think of something to say: “If the operation had only been
done three years ago when they _knew_ it would save her----”
“Three years ago? But we didn’t know anything about it then.”
“_She_ did.... Don’t you remember? It was when I stayed with her.... Oh,
Hatty, didn’t she tell you?”
“She never said a word.”
“Oh, well, she wouldn’t hear of it, even then when they didn’t give her
two years to live.”
Three years? She had had it three years ago. She had known about it all
that time. Three years ago the operation would have saved her; she would
have been here now. Why had she refused it when she knew it would save
her?
She had been thinking of the hundred pounds.
To have known about it three years and said nothing--to have gone
believing she hadn’t two years to live----
_That_ was her secret. That was why she had been so calm when Papa died.
She had known she would have him again so soon. Not two years----
“If I’d been them,” Lizzie was saying, “I’d have bitten my tongue out
before I told you. It’s no use worrying, Hatty. You did everything that
could be done.”
“I know. I know.”
She held up her face against them; but to herself she said that
everything had not been done. Her mother had never had her wish. And she
had died in agony, so that she, Harriett, might keep her hundred pounds.
IX
In all her previsions of the event she had seen herself surviving as the
same Harriett Frean with the addition of an overwhelming grief. She was
horrified at this image of herself persisting beside her mother’s place
empty in space and time.
But she was not there. Through her absorption in her mother, some large,
essential part of herself had gone. It had not been so when her father
died; what he had absorbed was given back to her, transferred to her
mother. All her memories of her mother were joined to the memory of this
now irrecoverable self.
She tried to reinstate herself through grief; she sheltered behind her
bereavement, affecting a more profound seclusion, abhorring strangers;
she was more than ever the reserved, fastidious daughter of Hilton
Frean. She had always thought of herself as different from Connie and
Sarah, living with a superior, intellectual life. She turned to the
books she had read with her mother, Dante, Browning, Carlyle, and
Ruskin, the biographies of Great Men, trying to retrace the footsteps
of her lost self, to revive the forgotten thrill. But it was no use. One
day she found herself reading the Dedication of _The Ring and the
Book_ over and over again, without taking in its meaning, without
any
|
introduction either of original
invention or improvement as regards the mechanical requirements of
the Apiary; and in maturing the many useful suggestions derived
in the course of a pretty widely extended correspondence. The
incorporation of matter thus arising must be the apology, if such
is needed, for the omission or abridgment, here and there, of some
that a later experience had superseded or modified. From these causes
the rewriting of many portions of the work became a necessity,
together with the introduction of much new illustration,--on the whole
resulting in a slightly enlarged volume. Under the circumstances of
accumulated materials, condensation was often found more difficult of
accomplishment than expansion, had this been thought desirable; but
brevity throughout has been the aim, so far as seemed consistent with
clear explanation and obvious utility. A work on the Honey-Bee, thus
restricted in its object and scope almost entirely to details of a
practical bearing, may not entitle it to much literary or scientific
consideration, but--without reference to the claims involved in a
large circulation--the author will never regret the time and thought
bestowed, where the leading aim was the welfare and preservation of
one of the most curious of God's creatures; and the dissemination of
knowledge in relation to a pursuit in rural life, of more general
interest, probably, than many kindred ones of higher pretensions.
_August, 1855._
PREFACE
TO
THE SIXTH EDITION.
A continued, or rather an increasing sale of the Bee-keeper's Manual
has, for the sixth time, rendered a reprint necessary; confirming
the belief that a work, first appearing as the amusement of an idle
hour, has, in its more recent extended form, not been unappreciated,
as supplying a medium between the costly treatises of elaborate
investigators and compilers and the class of mere tracts on Bee
management, that have, with more or less of pretension, abounded
of late years. These are sometimes directed to detached points or
portions only in the wide and diversified field of controversy opened
in relation to the Honey-Bee, or confined by space to the usual
desultory scraps of information for the guidance of the inexperienced
tyro, or supposed cottager; communicating just enough to prove the
necessity of advancing a step further, by consulting works that take
a wider and more systematic view of the subject in its details. The
prefaces to the two last editions of the book are again placed before
the reader, as showing that, in its successive stages, the author's
purpose has been the condensation of a large amount of useful apiarian
knowledge, assisted by an unusual variety of illustration. The present
republication professedly follows in the path of its predecessors; such
additional matter or remark being occasionally introduced as space
permitted, and the onward progress of improvement appeared to demand.
_May, 1860._
What well appointed Commonwealths! where each
Adds to the stock of happiness for all;
Wisdom's own forums! where professors teach
Eloquent lessons in their vaulted hall:
Galleries of art, and schools of industry!
Stores of rich fragrance! Orchestras of song!
What marvellous seats of hidden alchymy!
How oft, when wandering far and erring long,
Man might learn Truth and Virtue from the Bee!
Bowring.
THE
BEE-KEEPER'S MANUAL.
The Hive or domestic Honey Bee of this country is classed
entomologically _Apis mellifica_, order _Hymenoptera_, as having four
wings.[A] The limits to which a Bee-keeper's Manual of practice is
necessarily confined, permits only the remark that these extraordinary
insects are, as to origin and history, lost in the mists of a remote
antiquity. We know, however, that they, their habits and productions,
are alluded to in Scripture, and attracted marked attention and
admiration in the early eastern communities, where doubtless was
familiar their characteristic Oriental name, _Deburah_,--"she that
speaketh." Subsequently, the bee has spread itself, or been carried,
in spite of clime and temperature, over a large portion of the old
continents; following in the wake of civilized man wherever he has
placed his foot in the primeval forests of the new world; and later on,
in our own time, has been received as a friend and benefactor in the
boundless regions of Australasia and the islands of the Pacific Ocean.
From the time of Aristotle down to our own day, treatises on Bees have
ever been popular, and the curious naturalist has no difficulty in
collecting a library relative to a subject apparently inexhaustible.
But space allows us to notice neither the crude speculations to be met
with in ancient literature, the unprofitable disputations too often
prevailing among modern Bee-annalists, nor the endless catalogue of
hives, possible and impossible, of every period, by which the novice is
bewildered. Our present purpose is restricted to a utilitarian view of
the subject of apiarian knowledge, where science, invention, and the
most competent testimony, have combined to place it in our own day.
[A] Although in the following pages the _Apis mellifica_ alone is
referred to, it may be well here to state that attention has recently
been directed, not only in our own country, but in a still higher
degree in Germany, France, and even in the United States of America,
to the introduction of the Ligurian Bee, or _Apis Ligustica_ of
Italy, the race most probably that was known to Aristotle and Virgil,
and, perhaps, to the ancient Greeks. The combs of this species of
bee closely resemble those of the common kind, but its outward
characteristics exhibit a marked difference; the first rings of the
abdomen being of a reddish colour, instead of dark brown. A fertile
Ligurian queen is readily accepted in an English stock-hive, from which
a common queen has been abstracted, and in due time young Italians are
distinguishable, gradually displacing the original inhabitants. Report
speaks favorably of the superiority of the strangers over our own bee,
as more hardy, more laborious, less irascible, and as swarming earlier.
To those who may be unacquainted with the leading characteristic of the
Honey Bee, it is necessary to premise that in every family, when fully
constituted, its members are of three kinds of individuals; viz.,
A _Queen_, or _Mother Bee_, [Illustration]
The _Common_, or _Working Bees_; [Illustration]
And (during a part of the year)
the _Male_, or _Drone Bees_. [Illustration]
Thus associated, they severally perform their allotted functions
in great harmony, labouring for the general good, combining in
self-defence, recognising one another, but permitting the intrusion of
no stranger within the hive.
THE QUEEN OR MOTHER BEE
Is darker on the back, longer, and more taper towards the end of her
body than the common bees; has longer legs but shorter wings, and is
of a tawny or yellowish-brown colour underneath. She is supreme in the
hive, admitting no rival or equal; and is armed with a sting, somewhat
more curved in form than that of the common bees, which, however, she
rarely uses. Where she goes the other bees follow; and so indispensable
is her presence to the existence of the commonwealth, that where she is
not none will long remain. She is the mother of the entire community,
her office being to lay the eggs from which all proceed, whether
future queens, drones, or workers. Separate her from the family, and
she instinctively resents the injury, refuses food, pines, and dies.
Without a Queen, or a prospect of one, the labour of the hive is
suspended, and a gradual dispersion or emigration of the community
ensues.
[Illustration]
Those who have examined the appearance of a bee-hive, after it has
been filled with combs during a year, will recollect seeing suspended
here and there, certain small inverted cup-shaped forms. These are the
partially destroyed remains of what were designed for the birthplaces
of young queens, and so-called royal cells or cradles. They are much
larger than the common hexagonal cells in which the working bees are
bred; varying also in their composition, the material of which appears
to be a mixture of wax or propolis, and the farina of flowers. Soon
after the foundation of one of them has been laid, an egg is deposited
in it, the work of completion of the cradle being carried on as
required by the increasing growth of its occupant. When finished and
closed up, it presents in form the appearance of an oblong spheroid,
about an inch long, usually appended like a stalactite perpendicularly
to the edge of a comb, the small end or mouth being downwards, a
position most favorable to economy of space in the hive. In number
the royal cells vary from four or five to a dozen, and sometimes
more. They are not peopled till after the usual great spring laying
of eggs for the production of working bees, preparatory to swarming;
and also those to produce drone bees. The existence of the latter,
or in some stage towards existence, is an invariable preliminary to
the construction of royal cells, the reason for which will hereafter
appear. The affectionate attachment evinced by the nurse-bees towards
the royal larvæ is marvellous, the quantity of food given is profuse,
and they arrive severally at maturity on or about the sixteenth day
from the laying of each egg; these having usually an interval between
them of but a few days. Of the young females or princesses, as they are
often called, and the mode of disposing of supernumerary ones, we shall
speak more at large when we come to treat of swarming. The duration
of life in a Queen bee, under ordinary circumstances, is, by a wise
provision for the perpetuation of the species, much more prolonged than
is the case with the common bees, and some observers have imagined
that it may in some instances have reached to nearly five years. So
far as my knowledge extends, the oldest queen bee of which we have an
authentic record, existed, in the apiary of Mr. Robert Golding,[B]
during the space of three years and eleven months. She died in April
or May, showing little sign of decrepitude, judging by her fertility,
for previously she had filled the hive with an abundance of brood of
every kind. I am, however, inclined to believe that a Queen is oftener
changed than we are always aware of, for in nothing in Nature is there
displayed a more careful attention to the due preservation of a family
of bees than in the provision made for supplying the casual vacancies
arising not merely from the natural demise of the sovereign, but from
other causes, especially those involving deficient powers or absolute
sterility. I should, therefore, discountenance any attempt at direct
interference by the forcible removal of a queen, after a prescribed
period, as has sometimes been advocated. If, however, it should happen
that such removal is absolutely necessary, the bees will accept a
successor as soon as they have discovered their loss, which is often
not till after the lapse of several hours. If all is right the previous
agitation will cease.
[B] See the 'Shilling Bee-book,' by Robert Golding.
And this leads us on to a curious, if not unique fact in relation to
the natural history of the Honey bee, which though probably not unknown
to the ancients, was rediscovered and promulgated by Schirach, a member
of an apiarian society, formed in the middle of the last century at
Little Bautzen, in Upper Lusatia. In contradistinction to the usual way
in which a young Queen is created, preparatory to the swarming season,
by what is denominated the _natural_ process, the details we are about
to give show that the same thing may be effected by another mode, or,
as it is said, _artificially_. Whether these terms, as opposed to each
other, are rightly applied or not, they at least mark a difference;
and being thus practically understood, we shall follow the example of
other authors in using them. The fact itself, startling as at first it
seemed, has been so clearly authenticated, that any lurking scepticism
has disappeared; and, indeed, the principle is now so well understood
and carried into general use by the scientific Apiculturist that, in
a popular treatise on the Honey bee, our object would he imperfectly
accomplished without entering into a few particulars in connection with
it. And first, we have the assurance that the prevalent opinion as to
any supposed original or generated difference between common eggs and
those laid for the especial production of Queen bees, is founded in
error; an altered and accelerated mode as to the development of the
egg being all that is needed for the maturation of a perfect female.
That we may understand the method of procedure on the part of the
bees, we have to suppose that a hive has been deprived of its Queen
(no matter whether by death or design) at that particular period when
eggs and larvæ are each present in the cells of the combs: such larvæ
being not more than two or three days old, for this is essential.
Could we at such a juncture witness the proceedings of the family, a
spectacle would be presented of much domestic distress and confusion
when it had been discovered that the hive was queenless. Soon, however,
the scene changes to the quietude of hope, for the foundation of a
queen's cell (and as a provision against possible failure, often of
three or four) is commenced by the bees, usually within twenty-four
hours. They select a common grub or larva, and enlarge the cell it
occupies, by sacrificing the three contiguous ones, surrounding it
with a cylindrical enclosure; the new cradle of royalty presenting in
this stage the appearance of an acorn cup. The embryo Princess, for
such she has now become, is amply supplied with a nurture, supposed to
differ from that given to the common larvæ (a point questioned by some
naturalists); her habitation in the meanwhile receiving elongation to
suit her growth. About the fifth day the worm assumes the nymph state,
the cell being now worked into its usual pear-shaped figure; the bees
quitting it as soon as the lower end is finally closed. About the
fourteenth day a perfectly developed female comes forth, in no respect
differing from a Queen bred in the natural way. Fecundation and the
laying of eggs usually follow in a few days, the economy of the hive
then resuming its wonted course.
The Queen bee rarely leaves home, or is to be seen, except in hives
constructed purposely with a view to observation. In such a one I have
frequently watched the proceedings, as she has leisurely traversed
the combs, the bees clearing a passage on her approach, their heads
turned towards her, and, by repeatedly touching her with their antennæ,
showing a marked attachment, a favour she is occasionally seen to
return. Indeed, in some well-authenticated instances, affection has
been continued even after her death. The great object of her existence
being the perpetuation of the species, her majesty seems intent on
nothing more, during these royal progresses, than peeping into the
cells as she passes them, ever and anon selecting one, within which she
inserts her abdomen, and deposits at the bottom an egg. These are about
the size of those produced by a butterfly, but more elongated, and of a
bluish-white colour. So prolific are some Queens that I have sometimes
witnessed an extraordinary waste of eggs when, as the combs have become
in great part filled with brood or honey, she finds a difficulty in
meeting with a sufficiency of unoccupied cells. In such an emergency,
impelled by necessity, the eggs are dropped at random, and carried off
or devoured by the bees. No doubt an early and productive season tends
often to this result, and marks the necessity of a timely temporary
addition to the storing room of the family. The great laying takes
place in April and May, when the number of eggs has been variously
estimated by naturalists at 200 to 600 in a day, amounting to an
aggregate of 50,000 to 80,000 in the year. "This sounds like a great
number," remarks Dr. Bevan,[C] "but it is much exceeded by some other
insects." Indeed, a wider calculation has been made, in his valuable
remarks on bees, by the Rev. Dr. W. Dunbar,[D] who thinks that some
Queens (for they are not all equally prolific) produce 100,000 eggs
yearly. When we take into account the enormous demand for the supply of
swarms, the constant deaths in the course of nature, and the thousands
of lives always sacrificed by casualties of various kinds, at home
and abroad, I am inclined to lean to the higher estimate. No doubt as
the cold weather advances there is a considerable falling off in the
number of eggs, but the interval is very short in which the queen, in a
flourishing hive, discontinues laying more or less. "Indeed," observes
Mr. Golding, "it appears that at any time when the temperature is not
too low for the bees to appropriate the food that is given to them, the
Queen will deposit eggs."
[C] See 'The Honey-Bee, its Natural History, Physiology, and
Management.' By Edward Bevan, M.D.
[D] See the 'Naturalist's Library,' vol. xxxiv.
THE COMMON OR WORKING BEES
Are the least in size, and in point of numbers in a family are
variously calculated at twelve to thirty thousand, according to
the bulk of the swarm; though under certain circumstances they are
sometimes much more numerous. As regards sex, we have seen in the
preceding section that there is no reason to doubt they are females,
only that the reproductive organs and ovaries are not as fully
developed as they are in the case of a perfect Queen; and this has led
to the erroneous use of the term _neuters_, as sometimes applied to the
common bees. If any doubt should remain as to their sex, it is removed
by the knowledge that, in some rare instances, they have been able to
produce eggs. Like the Queen, each has the power of stinging. The use
of the sting, however, usually involves a loss of life, for, being
barbed like an arrow, the bee has rarely the power of withdrawing it.
The eggs for workers are deposited in the common cells in the centre
of the hive, being the part first selected for that purpose, the Queen
usually laying them equally on each side of a comb, and nearly back to
back. In four or five days' time, they are hatched, when a small worm
is presented, remaining in the larva or grub state four to six days
more, during which period it is assiduously fed by the nurse-bees. The
larvæ then assume the nymph or pupa form, and spin themselves a film or
cocoon, the nurses immediately after sealing them up with a substance
which Huber[E] calls wax. It is, however, a mixture of wax and pollen,
being thicker, more highly coloured, more porous, and less tenacious,
probably to afford air, and facilitate the escape of the imprisoned
tenant. This takes place about the twenty-first day from the laying
of the egg, unless the process has been somewhat retarded by cold
weather. The attentive observer may at this time, in a suitable hive,
witness the struggles and scrambling into the world, generally by its
own exertions, of the now perfect _imago_, the little grey new-born
shaking, brushing, and smoothing itself, preparatory to entering upon
the duties of life, and in a day or two, or sooner, it is busily
occupied in the fields.[F]
[E] See "Observations on the Natural History of Bees," by Francis
Huber; English edition, London, 1841. An invaluable work to the
scientific apiculturist.
[F] As soon as the young bee comes forth, the others partially clear
the cell, and it again receives an egg; this being often repeated
four or five times in the season. Afterwards the cells become the
receptacles for honey or farina; but they are found in time to become
contracted or thickened by this rapid succession of tenants, and the
consequent deposits of exuviæ, excrement, &c. It has been asserted by
Huber and other naturalists, that young bees, bred in old contracted
cells, are proportionately smaller in size. Such combs should be
removed from the hive.
Though we have, as I conceive, no actual proof that the occupation of
individual bees is at all times unchangeably directed to one point (as
some naturalists have imagined), observation shows that the division
of labour is one of their leading characteristics. Some are engaged
in secreting and elaborating wax for the construction of combs in the
hive; others in warming the eggs; in feeding the larvæ, as also their
queen; in ventilating and cleansing the hive; in guarding and giving
notice of attacks or annoyance from without; and the rest in searching
the fields and woods for the purpose of collecting honey and farina,
for present and future store.
The longevity of the working bees has often furnished matter for
dispute, and erroneous ideas have been engendered where a family
has been seen for a series of years to continue in a populous and
thriving condition. But during this period the Queen (or more than
one in succession) has been incessantly occupied in laying eggs
innumerable, to supply by new births the place of the countless
thousands of bees that periodically disappear. Their dwelling has
remained, but successive generations of tenants have kept its works
in repair, giving way in time to fresh occupants. It is shown clearly
by Dr. Bevan and other good authorities, both by argument and actual
experiment, that six to eight months is the limit of their duration;
for, notwithstanding the immense annual increase, the numbers in a hive
dwindle down gradually, owing to the chills of autumn and towards the
end of the year, to a comparatively few. There is no doubt, therefore,
that every bee existing after Christmas was bred during the latter
part of the summer or autumn; and this is a sufficient answer to those
who sometimes inquire what is to become of the accumulated masses of
bees, in hives managed on the depriving system, where neither swarming
nor destruction takes place.
We might here allude to a prevalent error as to any inherent
difference, local or otherwise, in the characteristics of the domestic
Honey bee. When we hear it said, that some are "better workers" than
others, all that ought to be understood is, that the family has the
advantage of being under favorable circumstances as to locality or
season; with a fertile Queen, and an abundant population, for without
these essentials, every operation goes on sluggishly, and prosperity
becomes hopeless.
THE DRONE OR MALE BEES
Are computed in the early part of the summer at one to two thousand,
and upwards, in a stock-hive; but the numbers are irregular, for
a weak stock will often have an undue proportion. They possess no
sting; are larger, darker, and more hairy than the common bees; easily
distinguishable by their heavy motion on the wing, and by their louder
humming or _droning_.
After her great spring laying of common eggs has far advanced, and
as an invariable preliminary to the construction of royal cells, the
Queen proceeds to deposit eggs intended for the production of drones
or males, though often without discontinuing those for workers. The
drone eggs are laid in cells larger in diameter, and stronger than
the others, and usually placed towards the outer extremities of the
hive.[G] A longer period is necessary for the development of a male
than a female, and the drones pass through their various stages in
about twenty-four to twenty-six days, being seldom seen till about
the beginning of May (though occasionally earlier), and then only in
warm weather, in the middle of the day. These are the produce of the
first-laid eggs; for a second smaller laying of drone eggs commonly
takes place about two months later, though the males are rarely found
after August, unless under certain contingencies.
[G] A curious question for the naturalist arises as to the instinct
which directs a Queen bee invariably to deposit the proper eggs in the
proper cells. The most accurate microscopic observation cannot detect
any difference between the egg of a worker, that of a drone, or of
a Queen, all proceeding indiscriminately from the same ovaries and
oviduct. Ingenious theories have been advanced as to the possibility
of what some call impregnated and unimpregnated eggs being laid at
the option of the Mother bee. Huber's opinion, "that nature does not
allow the Queen the choice of the eggs she is to lay," only adds to the
difficulty of arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.
The drones take no part in the collection of stores, nor in any
operation or process of the hive, for which they have proverbially
suffered much ignorant and absurd reproach, since Nature has denied
them the necessary means, and in their creation has allotted them
a distinct office. Indeed, their flights from the hive are only
occasional short ones, and they rarely alight during such excursions.
They are of the male sex, their presence in a hive being only required
at that particular period when the young queens are arriving at
maturity; for of all the theories that have been entertained as to
the functions of the drones, that of Huber is undoubtedly the true
one,--impregnation.
"Naturalists," says Huber, "have been extremely embarrassed to account
for the number of males in most hives, and which seem only a burden
on the community, since they appear to fulfil no function. But we now
begin to discern the object of nature in multiplying them to such an
extent. As fecundation cannot be accomplished within the hive, and as
the queen is obliged to traverse the expanse of the atmosphere, it is
requisite that the males should be numerous, that she may have the
chance of meeting some one of them. Were only two or three in each
hive, there would be little probability of their departure at the same
instant with the Queen, or that they would meet in their excursions;
and most of the females might thus remain sterile."
Were any doubt to remain on the subject, perhaps the annual destruction
of the drones by the workers throws the most satisfactory light on
the design of their creation. This process varies in point of time,
according to circumstances. Deprive a hive forcibly of its Queen, and,
according to Bonner and Huber, no expulsion of drones takes place.
"In such cases," says the latter, "they are tolerated and fed, and
many are seen even in the middle of January." They are retained under
the inspiration of hope, for a contingency might arise to require
their presence. Where a necessity for swarming has been in any way
superseded, there are either no royal cells constructed, or the young
queens meet with premature destruction. Then frequently commences an
early expulsion of the drones, thus rendered purposeless: they become
mere consumers, an incumbrance in the hive, and as such the common bees
instinctively wage fierce war upon them, ending in total annihilation:
nor are even the male larvæ allowed to remain in their cells. This
expulsive process often commences, under such circumstances, in the
middle, or at any rate towards the end of May, as I have repeatedly
witnessed, and not unfrequently is again resorted to later on in the
season. On the other hand, in the case of swarming hives it does not
take place till July, or even later, according to season and locality,
when all the royal brood is disposed of. The circumstances differ
in the two cases; and the bees in this, as in other parts of their
practice, are sufficiently utilitarians to modify their proceedings
accordantly. In the one instance, the office of the males is rendered
void, and in the other it is indispensable to the young queens. Such of
these as go forth with swarms become fertilized in two or three days
after (though sometimes it is later than this), followed by the laying
of eggs in about a similar distance of time. Thenceforth they remain
fruitful, if not ever after (as is the case with some other insects),
at all events for a year, for young bees are produced, without the
subsequent presence of a single male in the family, till the following
spring. The destruction of the drones, therefore, be it sooner or
later, may be considered an indication that the hive contains no queen
brood, and, consequently, that no swarming is to be expected.
Conflicting opinions have been formed as to the desirableness of
assisting the working bees in the task of expelling the drones--often a
protracted process--for although the latter are not armed, like their
more numerous opponents, yet their superior size and strength dispose
them often to make a stout resistance. If it can be done at once,
without undue annoyance to the family, much fighting and valuable time
may doubtless be saved by interfering; but no advice can be worse than
that of attempting to accomplish the work piecemeal. When attacked,
the drones, to stave off the impending storm, will congregate together
in a remote part of the hive. Observation led me to think they would
at such a time be glad to retreat for still greater safety into a
separate box, so placed as to be accessible to them. Accordingly,
on the 14th of June, in one of my collateral stock-hives, where the
drones for a day or two had been hard pushed by the others, I opened
a communication on the ground floor into an empty side box. My theory
was completely realised, for the poor drones gladly made their way
into this, where they remained clustered at the top like a swarm,
not a single common bee accompanying them, and would probably have
been starved. The following morning I took away the box of drones and
destroyed them, counting rather more than 2200, besides some few that
had escaped; altogether a greater number than the usual estimate gives
to a family. I did not find among them a solitary working bee; nor
could I discover in the parent stock-hive one remaining drone. The bees
peaceably at once recommenced work, and did well; as if glad in this
wholesale way to be rid of their late unprofitable inmates. What was
the cost of their daily maintenance? And what proportion to the entire
population of the hive did the drones bear? After this apparently large
abstraction, no sensible difference was observable in the crowding.
In this hive the usual second laying of drone eggs took place, and a
good many more drones were expelled at the end of July. I have not been
enabled to repeat this experiment, but have no doubt it would always
succeed under similar circumstances.
SWARMING (OR SINGLE HIVING) AND DEPRIVING SYSTEMS.
The multiplication of families or colonies of bees, in the natural
manner, is accomplished by the secession of a portion of the
inhabitants of a stock-hive, which has become over-peopled, with
insufficient room for the breeding and storing departments. This act
of emigration or swarming is sometimes an affair of expediency only;
and by a timely enlargement and decrease in the temperature of the
hive it may often be prevented. As soon as warm weather sets in, a
common sized hive becomes crowded and heated to excess; and at length a
separation of the family becomes a matter of necessity. In anticipation
of this event, royal cells are constructed and tenanted for the rearing
of young queens, for without these no swarming occurs. A crowded
dwelling therefore naturally prompts to this preliminary; whilst on the
contrary, a large hive has the effect of retarding the formation of
such cells, and the migration of which they are the precursor. In the
words of Gelieu,[H] "in the swarming season the strong hives are almost
entirely filled with brood-combs. At that time also honey becomes
abundant; and when fine days succeed each other, the working bees amass
an astonishing quantity. But where is it to be stored? Must they wait
till the young bees have left the brood-cells, by which time the early
flowers will be withered? What is to be done in this dilemma? Mark the
resources of the industrious bees. They search in the neighbourhood[I]
for a place where they may deposit their honey, until the young shall
have left the combs in which they were hatched. If they fail in this
object, they crowd together in the front of their habitation, forming
prodigious clusters. It is not uncommon to see them building combs on
the outside."
[H] See 'The Bee-Preserver,' by Jonas de Gelieu, translated from
the French; Edinburgh, 1829. This valuable little work contains the
substance of sixty-four years' experience.
[I] The word here translated _neighbourhood_ seems, with some, to
have given rise to a misconception as to the meaning intended to be
conveyed by it. From the context it is clear Gelieu only meant to
imply some place of deposit in proximity to the parent hive, and not
anything actually apart from it. He distinctly says, "provided there be
an accessible way of communication between them." That bees do, in a
degree, leave their usual domicile for the temporary storing of honey
is evident, when from necessity they construct combs (often in the open
air) on the underneath side of their floor; or work in a separate hive
or box, placed against the original one.
In general, honey-gathering is altogether suspended, necessarily,
under the circumstances we have stated; and, after a long course of
inaction, in the very best part of the season, swarming follows. Indeed
there always appears to be a connexion between swarming and idleness,
induced by a succession of interregnums in the government, causing
a suspension of breeding, when little or no store of any kind is
collected. The proprietor must therefore make his election as to his
course. If the multiplication of stocks is his object, his bees may
thus be impelled to throw off swarms, but he must abandon the prospect
of a large harvest of honey under such circumstances. This method of
bee management is usually called _single hiving_, and is that commonly
followed by cottagers, as on the whole the least expensive. On the
general subject of swarming we shall enter more at large under the head
of "Spring Management."
_Depriving system._--Opposed to the mode of management in which
swarming is systematically encouraged, is that whereby, under ordinary
circumstances, it may be often prevented, and much valuable time, in
the most productive part of the year, be rendered available for the
purposes of adding to the wealth of the family. Let us observe the
natural instinct of these little animals, and at the proper season
provide them with such an occasional addition of storing-room as will
enable them uninterruptedly to go on constructing fresh combs, to
be filled with honey, unmixed with brood or other substances. This
temporary receptacle, though in communication with the stock-hive, can
at pleasure, in the way which will hereafter be described, be detached
from it, without injury to the bees; these returning to their original
habitation, in which the mother bee (although she may occasionally
perambulate every part of her dominion,) ought exclusively to carry on
the work of breeding. The honey obtained by this act of _Deprivation_
is always supposed to be in excess of what is required for the wants
of the family, and almost invariably pure in quality. Various have
been the contrivances for effecting the separation of the storing
and breeding departments in a hive. The bees, when pressed for room,
will extend their operations almost in any direction, whether the
accommodation is given above (which is termed _storifying_), at the
bottom (_nadiring_), or _collaterally_. Equally indifferent are they
to the material of the temporary receptacle. A second hive, box, or
glass, placed over the stock, is termed a _duplet_, or more commonly
a _super_; by which general name, as we proceed, any kind of storing
vessel so placed will be designated. A productive season sometimes
admits of a second super (usually introduced between the first and the
stock), called in such case a _triplet_. An empty box or hive, pushed
beneath a full one, is denominated a _Nadir_,--a mode of practice
not always advisable except in the case of swarms of the same year,
or towards the latter end of very abundant seasons. A still smaller
addition to a common hive consists merely of a few bands of straw,
on which it
|
his task. The
real difficulty of the commanding general consists in applying the
principles of war under complicated, obscure and changeful conditions,
and in overcoming "friction" of many sorts. The intellectual side of the
art is readily enough understood. "In war everything is very simple,"
wrote Clausewitz, the fountainhead of the modern system. "The theory of
the great speculative combinations of war is simple enough in itself,"
said Jomini; "it only requires intelligence and attentive reflection."
"Strategy is the application of common sense to the conduct of war,"
declared Von Moltke. Arnold in his Lectures on Modern History said: "An
unprofessional person may, without blame, speak or write on military
subjects, and may judge of them sufficiently;" and the eminent military
authority, G. F. R. Henderson, endorsed this view. "The theory of war
is simple," wrote another expert, "and there is no reason why any man
who chooses to take the trouble to read and reflect carefully on one or
two of the acknowledged best books thereon, should not attain to a fair
knowledge thereof." As may be seen from the list of printed sources,
the present author--beginning with the volumes recommended by a board
of officers to the graduates of the United States Military Academy--did
much more than is here proposed.
Finally, during the entire time occupied in writing this work he
fortunately enjoyed the advantage of corresponding and occasionally
conferring with Brigadier General Oliver L. Spaulding, Jr., of the
United States Field Artillery, formerly instructor at the Army Service
Schools, Fort Leavenworth, and more recently Assistant Commandant of the
School of Fire, Fort Sill, who had distinguished himself not only in the
service but as a writer on professional subjects. General Spaulding has
kindly discussed with the author such military questions as have arisen,
and has read critically all the battle chapters. No responsibility
should, however, be attached to him, if a mistake is detected.[P.4]
A word must be added with reference to the notes. These have been placed
at the ends of the volumes because the author believes the best plan
will be to read the text of each chapter before looking at the notes
that bear upon it, and also in part because he did not wish any one
to feel that he was parading his discussions and citations. The notes
contain supplementary material designed to make the work a critical
as well as a narrative history, and contain also specific references
to the sources on which the text is based. These references involved
a most annoying problem. When one's citations are limited in number
and proceed in single file, as it were, they can be handled easily.
But in the present instance as many as 1800 documents were used for a
chapter, not a few of which were cited more than once; and each sentence
of the text--to speak broadly--resulted from comparing a number of
sources. Under these conditions the usual method would have produced a
repellent mass of references, perhaps greater in extent than the text
itself, which would have been very expensive to print and from their
multiplicity would have been extremely inconvenient. Where that method
appeared feasible it was adopted, but as a rule the references have
been grouped by paragraphs or topics. In many cases, however, pains
have been taken to indicate in the text itself the basis of important
statements, and further hints will be found in the notes. The reader can
thus always ascertain in general the basis of the text, and will find
specific references wherever the author has thought it likely they would
be desired. The special student will wish to look up all the citations
bearing on any topic that interests him. No doubt the plan is somewhat
unsatisfactory, but after studying the subject for a dozen years the
author feels sure that any other would have been more so.[P.5]
To thank all who kindly assisted the author to obtain material is
practically impossible; but a number of names appear in the list of
MS. sources, and others must be mentioned here. Without the cordial
support of Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and Porfirio Diaz, Secretary of
State Elihu Root, Minister of Relations Ignacio Mariscal, and Senator
Henry Cabot Lodge this history could not have been written; and the
author acknowledges with no less pleasure his special obligations to
Whitelaw Reid, American Ambassador to Great Britain, Joseph E. Willard,
Ambassador to Spain; Henri Vignaux, First Secretary of our embassy at
Paris; J. J. Limantour, Minister of Hacienda, Mexico; Major General
J. Franklin Bell, Chief of Staff; Major General F. C. Ainsworth, Adj.
Gen.; Admiral Alfred T. Mahan; Admiral French E. Chadwick; Brigadier
General J. E. Kuhn, Head of the War College, Washington; Dr. J. Franklin
Jameson, Director of the Department of Historical Research, Carnegie
Institution; Dr. Gaillard Hunt, Chief of the Division of MSS., Library
of Congress; Dr. St. George L. Sioussat, Brown University; Dr. Eugene
C. Barker, University of Texas; Dr. Herbert E. Bolton, Professor
Frederick J. Teggart and Dr. H. I. Priestley of the University of
California; Dr. R. W. Kelsey of Haverford College; Dr. J. W. Jordan,
Pennsylvania Historical Society; Dr. Worthington C. Ford, Editor for the
Massachusetts Historical Society; Dr. Solon J. Buck of the Minnesota
Historical Society; R. D. W. Connor, Secretary of the Historical
Commission of North Carolina; Dr. R. P. Brooks of the University of
Georgia; Dr. Dunbar Rowland, Director of the Archives and Historical
Department of Mississippi; T. M. Owen, Director of the Historical
Department of Alabama; Dr. George M. Philips, State Normal School, West
Chester, Pa.; Waldo G. Leland, Secretary of the American Historical
Association; W. B. Douglas and Miss Stella M. Drumm, Librarian, of the
Missouri Historical Society; Dr. Clarence E. Alvord of the University of
Illinois and Mrs. Alvord (formerly Miss Idress Head, Librarian of the
Missouri Historical Society); Ignacio Molina, Head of the Cartography
Section, Department of Fomento, Mexico; Charles W. Stewart, Librarian
of the Navy Department; James W. Cheney, long the Librarian of the War
Department; Major Gustave R. Lukesh, Director, and Henry E. Haferkorn,
Librarian of the United States Engineer School, Washington Barracks; D.
C. Brown, Librarian of the Indiana State Library; Victor H. Paltsits,
Department of MSS., New York Public Library; W. L. Ostrander of the
library at West Point; Lieutenant James R. Jacobs, 28th United States
Infantry; Dr. Katherine J. Gallagher; Dr. Martha L. Edwards. To the
widow of Admiral Charles S. Sperry and their son, Professor Charles
S. Sperry, the author is particularly indebted for an opportunity to
examine important papers left by William L. Marcy. Valuable suggestions
were most kindly given by Dr. William A. Dunning of Columbia University
and Dr. Davis R. Dewey of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who
read portions of the text, by Francis W. Halsey, Esq., of New York, who
read nearly all of it, and by Dr. Edward Channing of Harvard University,
who was so good as to look over more or less closely all of the proofs.
To the helpers not mentioned by name the author begs leave to offer
thanks no less sincere.
Finally, the author desires to mention the enterprise and public spirit
shown by the publishers in bringing out so expensive a work at this time
of uncertainty.
THE CENTURY CLUB, NEW YORK,
September, 1919.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I
PAGE
MAPS AND PLANS IN VOLUME I xvii
CONSPECTUS OF EVENTS xix
PRONUNCIATION OF SPANISH xxi
CHAPTER
I. MEXICO AND THE MEXICANS 1
II. THE POLITICAL EDUCATION OF MEXICO 29
III. THE RELATIONS BETWEEN THE UNITED STATES AND
MEXICO, 1825-1843 58
IV. THE RELATIONS BETWEEN THE UNITED STATES AND
MEXICO, 1843-1846 82
V. THE MEXICAN ATTITUDE ON THE EVE OF WAR 102
VI. THE AMERICAN ATTITUDE ON THE EVE OF WAR 117
VII. THE PRELIMINARIES OF THE CONFLICT 138
VIII. PALO ALTO AND RESACA DE GUERRERO 156
IX. THE UNITED STATES MEETS THE CRISIS 181
X. THE CHOSEN LEADERS ADVANCE 204
XI. TAYLOR SETS OUT FOR SALTILLO 225
XII. MONTEREY 239
XIII. SALTILLO, PARRAS, AND TAMPICO 262
XIV. SANTA FE 284
XV. CHIHUAHUA 298
XVI. THE CALIFORNIA QUESTION 315
XVII. THE CONQUEST OF CALIFORNIA 331
XVIII. THE GENESIS OF TWO CAMPAIGNS 347
XIX. SANTA ANNA PREPARES TO STRIKE 370
XX. BUENA VISTA 384
NOTES ON VOLUME I 402
APPENDIX (MANUSCRIPT SOURCES) 565
MAPS AND PLANS IN VOLUME ONE
As equally good sources disagree sometimes, a few inconsistencies are
unavoidable. Numerous errors have been corrected. An asterisk indicates
an unpublished original. Statements, cited in the notes, have also been
used.
PAGE
1. Mexico in 1919. Based upon standard maps xxii
2. Profile of the Route between Vera Cruz and Mexico 2
Drawn by Lieut. Hardcastle (Sen. Ex. Doc. 1; 30 Cong.,
1 sess.).
3. Matamoros and Fort Brown 159
Sketch map based on a *map drawn by Luis Berlandier,
Arista's chief engineer (War Dept., Mexico); Meade,
Letters, i, 73; McCall, Letters, 444; New Orleans
_Picayune_, June 28, 1846; *sketch by Mansfield,
Taylor's chief engineer (War Dept., Washington); and
an anonymous plan (Mass. Hist. Society).
4. Fort Brown to Brazos Island 162
Sketch map based principally upon the map in Apuntes para
la Historia de la Guerra entre México y los Estados-Unidos
and a map by Eaton of Third Infantry (Ho. Ex. Doc. 209;
29 Cong., 1 sess.).
5. Battle of Palo Alto 164
Sketch map drawn by a U. S. army officer. Based on Eaton's
plan (Ho. Ex. Doc., 209; 29 Cong., 1 sess.); a *sketch by
Berlandier (War Dept., Mexico); Apuntes; México á través
de los Siglos, iv, 562; _El Republicano_ (Berlandier);
a map in Campaña contra los Norte-Americanos; a map by
Lieut. Dobbins in Life of General Taylor; and _Journal of
Milit. Service Institution_, xli, 96.
6. Battle of Resaca de la Palma (_i.e._ Resaca de Guerrero) 170
Sketch map based on Apuntes; New Orleans _Picayune_,
June 25, 1846, from official drawings; a plan by Dobbins
in Life of General Taylor; a map in Campaña contra, _etc._;
a plan by Berlandier in _El Republicano_; a plan by
Eaton (Ho. Ex. Doc. 209; 29 Cong., 1 sess.); French, Two Wars,
52; and _Journal of Milit. Service Instit._, xli, 100.
7. From Matamoros to Monterey 210
Based on an official Mexican map prepared by the Fomento
Dept. and on Gen. Arista's map.
8. Battles of Monterey: General Map 232
Based on *three plans drawn by Lieut. Gardner from surveys
of Lieut. Scarritt (War Dept., Washington); _Picayune_
Extra, Nov. 19, 1846 (Lieut. Benjamin); a *drawing by
Adjutant Heiman (Tennessee Hist. Society); a map in
Apuntes; and a plan by Balbontín (Invasión Americana).
9. Battles of Monterey. Central Operations 240
Based on the same sources as No. 8 _supra_.
10. General Wool's March 271
Based on reconnaissances of Capt. Hughes, Lieut. Sitgreaves,
and Lieut. Franklin (Sen. Ex. Doc. 32; 31 Cong., 1 sess.).
11. Tampico and Its Environs 276
Based on a sketch by Lee and Gilmer (War Dept.,
Washington); and a Fomento Dept. Map (_see_ No. 7
_supra_).
12. General Kearny's March to Santa Fe 287
From a sketch drawn by A. Wislizenus (Sen. Misc. Doc.
26; 30 Cong., 1 sess.).
13. El Paso to Rosales, Mexico 305
From a U. S. War College map, Washington.
14. Battle of Sacramento 307
Based on a map in Sen. Ex. Doc. 1; 30 Cong., 1 sess.; and
a plan in México á través de los Siglos, iv, 644.
15. California in 1846 316
Based on a map in Sen. Ex. Doc. 1; 30 Cong., 1 sess.
16. Northern California 317
From a sketch by Lieut. Derby (Sen. Ex. Doc. 18; 31 Cong.,
1 sess.) and recent maps.
17. Fight at San Pascual 341
From a plan in Sen. Ex. Doc. 1; 30 Cong., 1 sess.
18. Fight near Los Angeles 344
From a plan in Sen. Ex. Doc. 1; 30 Cong., 1 sess.
19. General Patterson's March 360
From a map in Ho. Ex. Doc. 13; 31 Cong., 2 sess.
20. From Mexico City to Agua Nueva 381
From a Fomento Dept. map.
21. From Monterey to La Encarnación 382
Based on a map in Rápida Ojeada sobre la Campaña, _etc._;
and a *sketch by Lee and Gilmer (War Dept., Washington).
22. Battle of Buena Vista 387
Based on a map drawn by Capt. Linnard from the surveys of
Capt. Linnard and Lieuts. Pope and Franklin (Sen. Ex. Doc. 1;
30 Cong., 1 sess.); *two plans by the same officers (War
Dept., Washington); a *map based on a sketch by Dr.
Vanderlinden, chief Mexican surgeon (War Dept., Mexico);
a map by Balbontín (Invasión Americana); a *map drawn by
Stanislaus Lasselle (Indiana State Library); a plan by Lieut.
Green (Scribner, Campaign in Mexico); *Croquis para la
intelligencia de la Batalla de la Angostura (War Dept.,
Washington).
CONSPECTUS OF EVENTS
1845
March. The United States determines to annex Texas; W. S. Parrott
sent to conciliate Mexico.
July. Texas consents; Taylor proceeds to Corpus Christi.
Oct. 17. Larkin appointed a confidential agent in California.
Nov. 10. Slidell ordered to Mexico.
Dec. 20. Slidell rejected by Herrera.
1846
Jan. 13. Taylor ordered to the Rio Grande.
Mar. 8. Taylor marches from Corpus Christi.
21. Slidell finally rejected by Paredes.
28. Taylor reaches the Rio Grande.
Apr. 25. Thornton attacked.
May 8. Battle of Palo Alto.
9. Battle of Resaca de la Palma.
13. The war bill becomes a law.
June 5. Kearny's march to Santa Fe begins.
July 7. Monterey, California, occupied.
14. Camargo occupied.
Aug. 4. Paredes overthrown.
7. First attack on Alvarado.
13. Los Angeles, California, occupied.
16. Santa Anna lands at Vera Cruz.
18. Kearny takes Santa Fe.
19. Taylor advances from Camargo.
Sept. 14. Santa Anna enters Mexico City.
20-24. Operations at Monterey, Mex.
22-23. Insurrection in California precipitated.
23. Wool's advance from San Antonio begins.
25. Kearny leaves Santa Fe for California.
Oct. 8. Santa Anna arrives at San Luis Potosí.
Oct. 15. Second attack on Alvarado.
24. San Juan Bautista captured by Perry.
28. Tampico evacuated by Parrodi.
29. Wool occupies Monclova.
Nov. 15. Tampico captured by Conner.
16. Saltillo occupied by Taylor.
18. Scott appointed to command the Vera Cruz expedition.
Dec. 5. Wool occupies Parras.
6. Kearny's fight at San Pascual.
25. Doniphan's skirmish at El Brazito.
27. Scott reaches Brazos Id.
29. Victoria occupied.
1847
Jan. 3. Scott orders troops from Taylor.
8. Fight at the San Gabriel, Calif.
9. Fight near Los Angeles, Calif.
11. Mexican law regarding Church property.
28. Santa Anna's march against Taylor begins.
Feb. 5. Taylor places himself at Agua Nueva.
19. Scott reaches Tampico.
22-23. Battle of Buena Vista.
27. Insurrection at Mexico begins.
28. Battle of Sacramento.
Mar. 9. Scott lands near Vera Cruz.
29. Vera Cruz occupied.
30. Operations in Lower California opened.
Apr. 8. Scott's advance from Vera Cruz begins.
18. Battle of Cerro Gordo; Tuxpán captured by Perry.
19. Jalapa occupied.
May 15. Worth enters Puebla.
June 6. Trist opens negotiations through the British legation.
16. San Juan Bautista again taken.
Aug. 7. The advance from Puebla begins.
20. Battles of Contreras and Churubusco.
Aug. 24-Sept. 7. Armistice.
Sept. 8. Battle of Molino del Rey.
13. Battle of Chapultepec; the "siege" of Puebla begins.
14. Mexico City occupied.
22. Peña y Peña assumes the Presidency.
Oct. 9. Fight at Huamantla.
20. Trist reopens negotiations.
Nov. 11. Mazatlán occupied by Shubrick.
1848
Feb. 2. Treaty of peace signed.
Mar. 4-5. Armistice ratified.
10. Treaty accepted by U. S. Senate.
May 19, 24. Treaty accepted by Mexican Congress.
30. Ratifications of the treaty exchanged.
June 12. Mexico City evacuated.
July 4. Treaty proclaimed by President Polk.
THE PRONUNCIATION OF SPANISH
The niceties of the matter would be out of place here, but a few general
rules may prove helpful.
_A_ as in English "ah"; _e_, at the end of a syllable, like _a_ in
"fame," otherwise like _e_ in "let"; _i_ like _i_ in "machine"; _o_, at
the end of a syllable, like _o_ in "go," otherwise somewhat like _o_ in
"lot"; _u_ like _u_ in "rude" (but, unless marked with two dots, silent
between _g_ or _q_ and _e_ or _i_); _y_ like _ee_ in "feet."
_C_ like _k_ (but, before _e_ and _i,_ like [C]_th_ in "thin"); _ch_ as
in "child"; _g_ as in "go" (but, before _e_ and _i_, like a harsh _h_);
_h_ silent; _j_ like a harsh _h_; _ll_ like [D]_lli_ in "million"; _ñ_
like _ni_ in "onion"; _qu_ like _k_; _r_ is sounded with a vibration
(trill) of the tip of the tongue (_rr_ a longer and more forcible sound
of the same kind); _s_ as in "sun"; _x_ like _x_ in "box" (but, in
"México" and a few other names, like Spanish _j_); _z_ like [C]_th_ in
"thin."
Words bearing no mark of accentuation are stressed on the last syllable
if they end in any consonant except _n_ or _s_, but on the syllable next
to the last if they end in _n_, _s_ or a vowel.
[C] In Mexico, however, usually like _s_ in "sun."
[D] In Mexico usually like _y_.
[Illustration: MEXICO IN 1919]
THE WAR WITH MEXICO
I
MEXICO AND THE MEXICANS
1800-1845
Mexico, an immense cornucopia, hangs upon the Tropic of Cancer and opens
toward the north pole. The distance across its mouth is about the same
as that between Boston and Omaha, and the line of its western coast
would probably reach from New York to Salt Lake City. Nearly twenty
states like Ohio could be laid down within its limits, and in 1845 it
included also New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Nevada, California and portions
of Colorado and Wyoming.[1.1]
On its eastern side the ground rises almost imperceptibly from the Gulf
of Mexico for a distance varying from ten to one hundred miles, and
ascends then into hills that soon become lofty ranges, while on the
western coast series of cordilleras tower close to the ocean. Between
the two mountain systems lies a plateau varying in height from 4000 to
8000 feet, so level--we are told--that one could drive, except where
deep gullies make trouble, from the capital of Montezuma to Santa Fe,
New Mexico. The country is thus divided into three climatic zones, in
one or another of which, it has been said, every plant may be found that
grows between the pole and the equator.[1.1][E]
[E] It will be seen that occasionally the same "superior figure" is
attached to several paragraphs, and that sometimes these reference
numbers are not in consecutive order. The reasons will be
discovered when the reader consults the notes, which follow the
text of each volume.
Except near the United States the coast lands are tropical or
semi-tropical; and the products of the soil, which in many quarters is
extraordinarily deep and rich, are those which naturally result from
extreme humidity and heat. Next comes an intermediate zone varying in
general height from about 2000 to about 4000 feet, where the rainfall,
though less abundant than on the coast, is ample, and the climate far
more salubrious than below. Here, in view of superb mountains and even
of perpetual snows, one finds a sort of eternal spring and a certain
blending of the tropical and the temperate zones. Wheat and sugar
sometimes grow on the same plantation, and both of them luxuriantly;
while strawberries and coffee are not far apart.[1.1]
[Illustration: PROFILE OF THE ROUTE BETWEEN MEXICO AND VERA CRUZ]
The central plateau lacks moisture and at present lacks trees. The
greater part of it is indeed a semi-desert, though a garden wherever
water can be supplied. During the wet season--June to October--it is
covered with wild growths, but the rains merely dig huge gullies or
_barrancas_, and almost as soon as they are over, most of the vegetation
begins to wither away. The climate of the plateau is quite equable,
never hot and never cold. Wheat, Indian corn and maguey--the plant from
which _pulque_, the drink of the common people, is made--are the most
important products; and at the north great herds of cattle roam. In the
mountains, finally, numberless mines yield large quantities of silver,
some gold, and a considerable amount of copper and lead.[1.1]
The principal cities on the eastern coast are Vera Cruz, the chief
seaport, and Tampico, not far south of the Rio Grande River. In the
temperate zone between Vera Cruz and Mexico lie Jalapa and Orizaba,
and behind Tampico lies Monterey. On the central plateau one finds the
capital reposing at an elevation of about eight thousand feet and, about
seventy miles toward the southeast, Puebla; while on the other side of
the capital are the smaller towns of Querétaro and San Luis Potosí
toward the north, and Zacatecas and Chihuahua toward the northwest.
In the middle zone of the Pacific slope rises the large city of
Guadalajara, capital of Jalisco state; and along the coast below may be
found a number of seaports, the most important of which are Guaymas, far
to the north, Mazatlán opposite the point of Lower California, San Blas
a little farther down, and Acapulco in the south.[1.1]
[THE PEOPLE]
Exactly how large the population of Mexico was in 1845 one cannot
be sure, and it included quite a number of racial mixtures; but for
the present inquiry we may suppose it consisted of 1,000,000 whites,
4,000,000 Indians, and 2,000,000 of mixed white and Indian blood.[1.2]
The Spaniards from Europe, called Gachupines in Mexico, were of two
principal classes during her colonial days. Many had been favorites of
the Spanish court, or the protégés of such favorites, and had exiled
themselves to occupy for a longer or shorter time high and lucrative
posts; but by far the greater number were men who had left home in
their youth--poor, but robust, energetic and shrewd--to work their way
up. With little difficulty such immigrants found places in mercantile
establishments or on the large estates. Merciless in pursuit of gain yet
kind to their families, faithful to every agreement, and honest when
they could afford to be, they were intrinsically the strongest element
of the population, and almost always they became wealthy.[1.3]
Their sons, poorly educated, lacking the spur of poverty, and finding
themselves in a situation where idleness and self-indulgence were their
logical habits, commonly took "_Siempre alegre_" (Ever light-hearted)
for their motto, and spent their energy in debauchery and gambling.
To this result their own fathers, while disgusted with it, usually
contributed. Spanish pride revolted at the ladder of subordination by
which these very men had climbed. They felt ambitious to make gentlemen
of their sons, and some easy position in the army, church or civil
service--or, in default of it, idleness--was the career towards which
they pointed; and naturally the heirs to their wealth, whose ignoble
propensities had prevented them from acquiring efficiency or sense of
responsibility, made haste, on getting hold of the paternal wealth,
to squander it. If the pure whites, with some exceptions of course,
fell into this condition, nothing better could fairly be expected of
those who were partly Indian; and before the revolution it was almost
universally felt in Spain and among the influential class of colonials
themselves, that nothing of much value could be expected of Creoles, as
the whites born in Mexico and the half-breeds were generally called.
The achievement of independence naturally tended to increase their
self-respect, broaden their views and stimulate their ambition; but the
less than twenty-five years that elapsed between 1821 and 1846, when
the war between Mexico and the United States began, were not enough to
transform principles, reverse traditions and uproot habits.[1.3]
The pure-blooded Indians--of whom there were many tribes, little
affiliated if at all--had changed for the worse considerably since
the arrival of the whites. In their struggles against conquest and
oppression the most intelligent, spirited and energetic had succumbed,
and the rest, deprived of strength, happiness, consolation and even
hope, and aware that they existed merely to fill the purses or sate
the passions of their masters, had rapidly degenerated. Their natural
apathy, reticence and intensity were at the same time deepened. While
apparently stupid and indifferent, they were capable of volcanic
outbursts. Though fanatically Christian in appearance, they seem to
have practiced often a vague nature worship under the names and forms
of Catholicism. Indeed they were themselves almost a part of the soil,
bound in soul to the spot where they were born; and, although their
women could put on silk slippers to honor a church festival and every
hut could boast a crucifix or a holy image, they lived and often slept
beside their domestic animals with a brutish disregard for dirt.[1.3]
Legally they had the rights of freemen and were even the wards of the
government, and a very few acquired education and property; but as
a rule they had to live by themselves in little villages under the
headship of lazy, ignorant caciques and the more effective domination
of the priests. As the state levied a small tax upon them and the
Church several heavy ones, their scanty earnings melted fast, and if
any surplus accumulated they made a fiesta in honor of their patron
saint, and spent it in masses, fireworks, drink, gluttony and gambling.
When sickness or accident came they had to borrow of the landowner
to whose estate they were attached; and then, as they could not leave
his employ until the debt had been discharged, they not only became
serfs, but in many cases bequeathed their miserable condition to
their children. Silent and sad, apparently frail but capable of great
exertion, trotting barefooted to and from their huts with their coarse
black hair flowing loosely or gathered in two straight braids, watching
everything with eyes that seemed fixed on the ground, loving flowers
much but a dagger more, fond of melody but preferring songs that were
melancholy and wild, always tricky, obstinate, indolent, peevish and
careless yet affectionate and hospitable, often extracting a dry humor
from life as their donkeys got nourishment from the thistles, they went
their wretched ways as patient and inscrutable as the sepoy or the
cat--infants with devils inside.[1.3]
[THE CLASSES]
At the head of the social world stood a titled aristocracy maintained by
the custom of primogeniture. But as the nobles were few in number, and
for a long time had possessed no feudal authority, their influence at
the period we are studying depended mainly upon their wealth. Next these
came aristocrats of other kinds. Some claimed the honor of tracing their
pedigree to the conquerors, and with it enjoyed great possessions; and
others had the riches without the descent. The two most approved sources
of wealth were the ownership of immense estates and the ownership of
productive mines. On a lower level stood certain of the rich merchants,
and lower still, if they were lucky enough to gain social recognition,
a few of those who acquired property by dealing in the malodorous
government contracts. To these must be added in general the high
dignitaries of the church, the foreign ministers, the principal generals
and statesmen and the most notable doctors and lawyers. Such was the
upper class.[1.4]
A sort of middle class included the lesser professional men, prelates,
military officers and civil officials, journalists, a few teachers,
business men of importance and some fairly well-to-do citizens without
occupations. Of small farms and small mines there were practically
none, and the inferior clergy signified little. The smaller importing
and wholesale merchants came to be almost entirely British, French
and German soon after independence was achieved, and the retailers
were mostly too low in the scale to rank anywhere. The case of those
engaged in the industries was even more peculiar. Working at a trade
seemed menial to the Spaniard, especially since the idea of labor was
associated with the despised Indians, and most of the half-breeds and
Indians lacked the necessary intelligence. Skilled workers at the
trades were therefore few, and these few mostly high-priced foreigners.
Articles of luxury could be had but not comforts; pastries and ices
but not good bread; saddles covered with gold and embroidery, but not
serviceable wagons; and the highly important factor of intelligent,
self-respecting handicraftsmen was thus well-nigh missing.[1.4]
The laboring class consisted almost entirely of half-breeds and
Indians. In public affairs they were not considered, and their own
degraded state made them despise their tasks. Finally, the dregs of the
population, especially in the large cities, formed a vicious, brutal and
semi-savage populace. At the capital there were said to be nearly 20,000
of the _léperos_, as they were called, working a little now and then,
but mainly occupied in watching the religious processions, begging,
thieving, drinking and gambling. In all, Humboldt estimated at 200,000
or 300,000 the number of these creatures, whose law was lawlessness and
whose heaven would have been a hell.[1.4]
[THE CHURCH]
The only church legally tolerated was that of Rome; and this, as the
unchallenged authority in the school and the pulpit, the keeper of
confessional secrets and family skeletons, and the sole dispenser
of organized charity, long wielded a tremendous power. The clerical
_fuero_, which exempted all ecclesiastics from the jurisdiction of the
civil courts, reinforced it, and the wealth and financial connections
of the Church did the same. In certain respects, however, the strength
of the organization began to diminish early in the nineteenth century;
and in particular the Inquisition was abolished in Mexico, as it was
in Spain. Soon after the colony became independent, a disposition to
bar ecclesiastics from legislative bodies, to philosophize on religious
matters and to view Protestants with some toleration manifested itself.
Ten years more, and the urgent need of public schools led to certain
steps, as we shall see, toward secular education. Political commotions,
the exactions of powerful civil authorities under the name of loans,
and various other circumstances cut into the wealth of the Church; and
the practical impossibility of selling the numberless estates upon which
it had mortgages or finding good reinvestments in the case of sales,
compelled it, as the country became less and less prosperous, to put up
with delays and losses of interest.[1.5]
Moreover the Church was to no slight extent a house divided against
itself. Under Spanish rule and substantially down to 1848, all the high
dignities fell to Gachupines, who naturally faced toward Spain, whereas
the parish priests were mainly Creoles with Mexican sympathies; and
while the bishops and other managers had the incomes of princes, nearly
all of the monks and ordinary priests lived in poverty. There was,
therefore, but little in common between the two ranks except the
|
extended for
hundreds of miles. The best house in the village without a cellar;
roots were kept in pits. Houses could be rented for two dollars per
month, where to-day they are twelve dollars. Pork was two dollars a
hundred; beef by the quarter, two and one-half cents a pound;
potatoes, fifteen cents a bushel. Men received seventy-five cents a
day for working on the railroad. Cord-wood was two dollars a cord; and
you could get it cut, split, and piled for fifty cents a cord. Men
wore stogy boots, generally with one leg of the trousers outside and
one in. Blue denham was the prevailing suit for workingmen. The
shoemaker cut his shoes, and they were sent out to be bound by women.
The women wore spring-heeled shoes, print dresses, and huge
sunbonnets; and in the summer-time the settlers went barefooted. The
roads were simply indescribable. When a tree fell, it was cut off
within an inch of the ruts; the wagon would sink to the hubs, and need
prying out with poles; harnesses were never cleaned, and boot-blacking
had no sale. But the schoolhouse was in every township. In the older
settlements could be seen the log hut in which the young couple
started housekeeping, then a log house of more pretentious size; the
frame-house which followed, and a fine brick house where the family
now lived, showing the rapid progress made.
This was in western Canada. Toronto was separated from Yorkville, but
was a busy, substantial city. I remember the stores being closed when
Lincoln was buried, and black bunting hung along the principal
streets. I remember, too, the men who were loudest in their curses at
the government and against Lincoln, how the tears came to their eyes,
and how that event brought them to their senses. Most of them were
shoemakers from New England.
In 1873 I crossed into Michigan with my family. Even as late as that
the greater part of northern Michigan, and especially the upper
peninsula, was _terra incognita_ to most of the people of that State.
The railroads stopped at a long distance this side the Straits of
Mackinaw. The lumbermen had but skimmed the best of the trees; and,
with the exception of a few isolated settlements on the lakes and up
the larger rivers, it was an unbroken wilderness, abounding in fish,
deer, bears, wolves, and wild-cats; in fact, a hunter's paradise, as
it is even to this day.
But with the extension of the railways to the Straits of Mackinaw, and
the opening of new lines to the north into the iron mines of Menominee
to the Gogebic range, the great copper mines of the Keweenaw
peninsula, and the ever-increasing traffic of the lakes, the changes
were simply marvellous. Some things I shall say will seem paradoxical,
but they are nevertheless true to life.
The greater parts of southern Michigan and southern Wisconsin were
settled by people from New York State; and long before the northern
parts of Michigan and Wisconsin were opened up, new States had risen
in the West, and the tide of immigration swept past towards new
frontiers, leaving vast frontiers behind them. Sometimes a few stray
men with money at their command would pierce the country and form a
settlement, as in the case of Traverse City. Here for years the mail
was brought by the Indians on dog-sledges in the winter. It took eight
days to reach Grand Rapids on snow-shoes. It is four hundred miles by
water to Chicago. Sometimes the winters were so long that the
provisions had to be dealt out very sparingly; but all the time the
little colony was growing, and when at last the railroads reached it,
the traveller, after riding for miles through virgin forests, would
come upon a little city of four thousand people, with good churches,
fine schools, and one store that cost one hundred thousand dollars to
build.
If it chanced to be summer-time he would see the tepees of the Indians
along the bay, and two blocks back civilized homes with all the
conveniences and luxuries of modern life. Here a huge canoe made of a
single log, and there a mammoth steamer with all the elegances of an
ocean-liner. Should he go on board of one of the steamers coasting
around the lakes with supplies, he would pass great bays with lovely
islands, and steam within a stone's throw of a comparatively rare
bird, the great northern diver, and suddenly find himself near a wharf
with a village in sight--a great saw-mill cutting its hundreds of
thousands of feet of lumber a day; and near by, Indian graves with the
food still fresh inside, and a tame deer with a collar and bell around
its neck trotting around the streets.
[Illustration: INDIAN CAMP, GRAND TRAVERSE BAY, MICHIGAN.
_Page 16._]
He can sit and fish for trout on his doorstep that borders the little
stream, or he can get on the company's locomotive and run twenty miles
back into the woods and see the coveys of partridges rising in clouds,
and here and there a timid doe and her fawn, whose curiosity is
greater than their fears, until the whistle blows, and they are off
like a shot into the deep forest, near where the black bear is
munching raspberries in a ten-thousand-acre patch, while millions of
bushels of whortleberries will waste for lack of pickers. He can sit
on a point of an inland lake and catch minnows on one side, and pull
up black bass on the other; and if a "tenderfoot" he will bring home
as much as he can carry, expecting to be praised for his skill. He is
mortified at the request to please bury them. He will ride over ground
that less than fifteen years ago could be bought for a song and to-day
produces millions, and is dotted with towns and huge furnaces glowing
night and day.
If in the older settled parts, he will ride through cornfields whose
tassels are up to the car windows, where the original settler paddled
his skiff and caught pickerel and the ague at the same time, and who
is still alive to tell the story. He can talk with a man who knew
every white man by name when he first went there, and remembers the
Indian peeping in through his log-cabin window, but whose
grandchildren have graduated from a university with twenty-seven
hundred students, where he helped build the log schoolhouse; who
remembers when he had to send miles for salt, and yet was living over
a bed of it big enough to salt the world down.
He had nothing but York State pumpkins and wild cranberries for his
Thanksgiving dinner, with salt pork for turkey; and he lives to-day in
one of the great fruit belts of the world, and ships his turkeys by
the ton to the East; and to-day in the North the same experience is
going on. Places where the mention of an apple makes the teeth water,
and where you can still see them come wrapped in tissue paper like
oranges, and yet, paradoxical as it may seem, you can enter a
lumber-camp and find the men regaled on roast chicken and eating
cucumbers before the seed is sown in that part of the country.
Here are farms worth over eighty thousand dollars, which but a few
years ago were entered by the homesteader who had to live on potatoes
and salt, and cut wild hay in summer, and draw it to town on a cedar
jumper, in order to get flour for his hungry children. Here on an
island are men living who used to leave their farming to see the one
steamer unload and load, or watch a schooner drawn up over the Rapids,
and who now see sweeping by their farms a procession of craft whose
tonnage is greater than all the ocean ports of the country.
I have sat on the deck of a little steamer and drawn pictures for the
Indians, who took them and marched off with the smile of a schoolboy
getting a prize chromo, and in less than five years from that time I
have at the same place sat down in a hotel lighted with electricity,
and a menu equal to any in the country, with a bronze portrait of
General Grant embossed on the top. Within ten years I have preached,
with an Indian chief for an interpreter, in a log house in which a
half-brother of Riel of North-Western fame was a hearer, where to-day
there are self-supporting churches and flourishing schools.
Less than sixteen years ago I stopped at the end of the Michigan
Central Railway, northern division; every lot was filled with stumps.
A school was being rapidly built, while the church had a lot only. The
next time I visited the town it had fine churches and schools. The
hotel had a beautiful conservatory filled with choice flowers. I could
take my train, pass on over the Straits of Mackinaw, on by rail again,
and clear to the Pacific, with sleeper and dining-car attached.
[Illustration: VIEW NEAR PETOSKEY, MICHIGAN.
_Page 20._]
But once leave your railway, and soon you can get to settlements
twenty years old which saw the first buggy last year come into the
clearings. Here are deep forests where the preacher on his way home
from church meets the panther and the wild-cat, and where as yet he
must ford the rivers and build his church, the first in nine thousand
square miles.
III.
THE MINUTE-MAN ON THE FRONTIER.
The minute-men at the front are the nation's cheapest policemen; and
strange as it may seem, these men stand in vital relations to all the
great cities of the country from which they are so far removed. It is
a well-known fact that every city owes its life and increase to the
fresh infusion of country blood, and it depends largely on the purity
of that blood as to what the moral condition of the city shall be.
Therefore it is of the utmost importance that Zion's watchmen shall
lift up their voices day and night, until not only the wilderness
shall be glad because of them, but that the city's walls may be named
Salvation and her gates Praise.
Let us make the rounds among our minute-men to see how they live and
what they do. Our road leads along the Grand Rapids and Indiana
Railway. All day long we have been flitting past new towns, and toward
night we plunge into the dense forests with only here and there an
opening. The fresh perfume of the balsam invades the cars, the clear
trout-streams pass and repass under the track, a herd of deer scurry
yonder, and once we see a huge black bear swaying between two giant
hemlocks.
At eleven P.M. we leave the train. There is a drizzling rain through
which we see a half-dozen twinkling lights. As the train turns a curve
we lose sight of its red lights, and feel we have lost our best
friend. A little boy, the sole human being in sight, is carrying a
diminutive mail-bag. The sidewalk is only about thirty-six feet long.
Then among the stumps we wind our slippery way, and at last reach the
only frame house for miles. To the north and east we see a wilderness,
with here and there a hardy settler's hut, sometimes a wagon with a
cover and the stump of a stove-pipe sticking through the top.
After climbing the stairs, which are destitute of a balustrade, we
enter our room. It is carpeted with a horse-blanket. Starting out with
a lumber wagon next morning, with axes and whip-saw, we hew our way
through the forest to another line of railway, and returning, are
asked by the people in the settlement, "Will it ever be settled?"
"Could a man raise apples?" "Snow too deep?" "Mice girdle all the
trees, eh?" etc.
Five years later, on a sleeping-car, we open our eyes in the morning,
and what a change! The little solitary stations that we passed before
are surrounded with houses. White puffs of steam come snapping out
from factories. A weekly paper, a New York and Boston store, and the
five- and ten-cent counter store are among the developments. Our train
sweeps onward, miles beyond our first stop; and instead of the lonely
lodging-house, palatial hotels invite us, bands of music are playing,
the bay is a scene of magic, here a little naphtha launch, and there a
steam yacht, and then a mighty steamer that makes the dock cringe its
whole length as she slowly ties up to it.
Night comes on, but the woods are as light as day with electric
lights. Rustic houses of artistic design are on every hand. Here,
where it was thought apples could not be raised because of mice and
deep snow, is a great Western Chautauqua.
Eighty thousand people are pushing forward into the northern counties
of this great State. Roads, bridges, schoolhouses,--all are building.
Most of the settlers are poor, sometimes having to leave part of their
furniture to pay freight. They are from all quarters of our own and
other lands. Here spring up great mill towns, mining towns, and county
seats; and here, too, our minute-man comes. What can he do? Nearly all
the people are here to make money. He has neither church, parsonage,
nor a membership to start with. Here he finds towns with twenty
saloons in a block, opera house and electric plants, dog-fights,
men-fights, no Sabbath but an extra day for amusements and
debauchery.
The minute-man is ready for any emergency; he takes chances that would
appall a town minister. He finds a town without a single house that is
a home; he has missed his train at a funeral. It is too cold to sleep
in the woods, and so he walks the streets.
A saloon-keeper sees him. "Hello, Elder! Did ye miss yer train? Kind
o' tough, eh?" with a laugh. "Well, ye ken sleep in the saloon if ye
ken stand it." And so down on the floor he goes, comforting himself
with the text, "Though I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there."
Another minute-man in another part of the country finds a town given
up to wickedness. He gets his frugal lunch in a saloon, the only place
for him.
"Are you a preacher?"
"Yes."
"Thought so. You want to preach?"
"I don't know where I can get a hall."
"Oh, stranger, I'll give ye my dance-hall; jest the thing, and I tell
ye we need preaching here bad."
"Good; I will preach."
The saloon man stretches a large piece of cotton across his bar, and
writes,--
"Divine service in this place from ten A.M. to twelve to-morrow. No
drinks served during service."
It is a strange crowd: there are university men, and men who never saw
a school. With some little trembling the minute-man begins, and as he
speaks he feels more freedom and courage. At the conclusion the host
seizes his big hat, and with a revolver commences to take up a
collection, remarking that they had had some pretty straight slugging.
On the back seats are a number of what are called five-cent-ante men;
and as they drop in small coin, he says,--
"Come, boys, ye have got to straddle that."
He brings the hat to the parson, and empties a large collection on the
table.
"But what can I do with these colored things?"
"Why, pard, them's chips; every one redeemable at the bar in gold."
Sometimes the minute-man has a harder time. A scholarly man who now
holds a high position in New England was a short time since in a
mountain town where he preached in the morning to a few people in an
empty saloon, and announced that there would be service in the same
place in the evening. But he reckoned without his host. By evening it
was a saloon again in full blast. Nothing daunted, he began outside.
The men lighted a tar-barrel, and began to raffle off a mule. Just
then a noted bravo of the camps came down; and quick as a flash his
shooting-irons were out, and with a voice like a lion he said,--
"Boys, I drop the first one that interferes with this service."
Thus under guard from unexpected quarters, the preacher spoke to a
number of men who had been former church-members in the far East.
Often these minute-men must build their own houses, and live in such a
rough society that wife and children must stay behind for some years.
One minute-man built a little hut the roof of which was shingled with
oyster-cans. His room was so small that he could pour out his coffee
at the table, and without getting up turn his flapjacks on the stove.
A travelling missionary visiting him, asked him where he slept. He
opened a little trap-door in the ceiling; and as the good woman peered
in she said,--
"Why, you can't stand up in that place!"
"Bless your soul, madam," he exclaimed, "a home missionary doesn't
sleep standing up."
Strapping a bundle of books on his shoulders, this minute-man starts
out on a mule-trail. If he meets the train, he must step off and
climb back. He reaches the distant camp, and finds the boys by the
dozen gambling in an immense saloon. He steps up to the bar and
requests the liberty of singing a few hymns. The man answers
surlily,--
"Ye ken if ye like, but the boys won't stand it."
The next minute a rich baritone begins, "What a friend we have in
Jesus," and twenty heads are lifted. He then says,--
"Boys, take a hand; here are some books." And in less than ten minutes
he has a male choir of many voices. One says, "Pard, sing number so
and so;" and another, "Sing number so and so." By this time the
saloon-keeper is growling; but it is of no use; the minister has the
boys, and starts his work.
In some camps a very different reception awaits him, as, for instance,
the following: At his appearance a wild-looking Buffalo-Bill type of
man greeted him with an oath and a pistol levelled at him.
"Don't yer know thar's no luck in camp with a preacher? We are going
to kill ye."
"Don't you know," said the minute-man, "a minister can draw a bead as
quick as any man?" The boys gave a loud laugh, for they love grit, and
the rough slunk away. But a harder trial followed.
"Glad to see ye, pard; but ye'll have to set 'em up 'fore ye
commence--rule of the camp, ye know." But before our man could frame
an answer, the hardest drinker in the crowd said,--
"Boys, he is the fust minister as has had the sand to come up here,
and I'll stand treat for him."
It is a great pleasure to add that the man who did this is to-day a
Christian.
One man is found on our grand round, living with a wife and a large
family in a church. The church building had been too cold to worship
in, and so they gave it to him for a parsonage. The man had his study
in the belfry, and had to tack a carpet up to keep his papers from
blowing into the lake. This man's life was in constant jeopardy, and
he always carried two large revolvers. He had been the cause of
breaking up the stockade dens of the town, and ruffians were hired to
kill him. He seemed to wear a charmed life--but then, he was over six
feet high, and weighed more than two hundred pounds. Some of the facts
that this man could narrate are unreportable.
The lives lost on our frontiers to-day through sin in all its forms
are legion, and no man realizes as well as the home missionary what it
costs to build a new country; on the other hand, no man has such an
opportunity to see the growth of the kingdom.
There died in Beloit, recently, the Rev. Jeremiah Porter, a man who
had been a home missionary. His field was at Fort Brady before
Chicago had its name. His church was largely composed of soldiers; and
when the men were ordered to Fort Dearborn, he went with them, and
organized what is now known as the First Presbyterian Church of
Chicago. This minute-man lived to see Chicago one million two hundred
thousand strong.
We should have lost the whole Pacific slope but for our minute-man,
the glorious and heroic Whitman, who not only carried his wagon over
the Rockies, but came back through stern winter and past hostile
savages, and by hard reasoning with Webster and others secured that
vast possession for us. As a nation we owe a debt we can never repay
to the soldiers of the cross at the front, who have endured (and
endure to-day) hardships of every kind. They are cut off from the
society which they love; often they live in dugouts, sometimes in
rooms over a saloon; going weeks without fresh meat, sometimes
suffering from hunger, and for a long time without a cent in the
house. Yet who ever heard them complain? Their great grief is that
fields lie near to them white for the harvest, while, with hands
already full, they can only pray the Lord of the harvest to send forth
more laborers.
Often there is but one man preaching in a county which is larger than
Massachusetts. He is cut off from libraries, ministers' meetings, and
to a large extent from the sympathies of more fortunate brethren, and
is often unable to send his children to college. These men still stand
their ground until they die, ofttimes unknown, but leaving foundations
for others to build on.
One place visited by a general missionary was so full of reckless men
that the station-agent always carried a revolver from his house to the
railway station. A vile variety show, carried on by abandoned women,
was kept open day and night. Sunday was the noisiest day of all. Yet
in this place a church was formed; and many men and women, having
found a leader, were ready to take a stand for the right.
I am not writing of the past; for all the conditions that I have
spoken of exist in hundreds, yes, thousands, of places all over the
land. One need not go to the far West to find them; they exist in
every State of the Union, only varying in their types of sin.
Visiting a home missionary in a mining region within two hours' ride
of the capital, in a State not four hundred miles from the Atlantic, I
found the man in one of the most desolate towns I ever saw. The most
prosperous families were earning on an average five dollars a week,
store pay. All were in debt. When the missionary announced his
intention of going there, he was warned that it was not safe; but that
did not alter his plans.
The first service was held in a schoolhouse, the door panels of which
were out and not a pane of glass unbroken. A roaring torrent had to be
passed on an unsteady plank bridge, over which the women and children
crawled on hands and knees. It was dark when they came. The preacher
could see the gleam of the men's eyes from their grimy faces as the
lanterns flickered in the draughts. He began to preach. Soon white
streaks were on the men's cheeks, as tears from eyes unused to weeping
rolled down those black faces. At the close a church was organized, a
reading-room was added, and many a boy was saved from the saloon by
it. Yet, strange to say, although the owners (church members too) had
cleared a million out of those mines, the money to build the needed
church and parsonage had to be sent from the extreme East.
Hundreds of miles eastward I have found men living, sixty and seventy
in number, in a long hut, their food cooked in a great pot, out of
which they dipped their meals with a tin dipper. No less than
seventy-five thousand Slovaks live in this one State, and their only
spiritual counsel comes from a few Bible-readers. Ought we not then,
as Christians, to help those already there, and give of our plenty to
send the men needed to carry the light to thousands of places that as
yet sit in the darkness and the shadow?
HOW THE HOME MISSIONARY BEGINS WORK IN THE NEW COMMUNITY.
_First_, pastoral visiting is absolutely necessary to success. The
feelings of newcomers are tender after breaking the home ties and
getting to the new home, and a visit from the pastor is sure to bring
satisfactory results. Sickness and death offer him opportunities for
doing much good, especially among the poor, and they are always the
most numerous.
Some very pathetic cases come under every missionary's observation.
Once a man called at the parsonage and asked for the elder, saying
that a man had been killed some miles away in the woods, and the
family wanted the missionary to preach the funeral sermon. The next
morning a ragged boy came to pilot the minister. The way led through
virgin forests and black-ash swamps. A light snow covered the ground
and made travelling difficult, as much of the way was blocked by
fallen trees. After two hours' walking the house was reached; and here
was the widow with her large family, most of them in borrowed clothes,
the supervisor, a few rough men, and a county coffin.
The minister hardly knew what to say; but remembering that that
morning a large box had been sent containing a number of useful
articles, he made God's providence his theme. A few days after, the
box was taken to the widow's home. When they reached the shanty they
found two little bunks inside. Her only stove was an oven taken from
an old-fashioned cook-stove. The oven stood on a dry-goods box.
The missionary said, "Why, my poor woman, you will freeze with this
wretched fire."
"No," she said; "it ain't much for cooking and washing, but it's a
_good_ little heater."
A few white beans and small potatoes were all her store, with winter
coming on apace. When she saw the good things for eating and wearing
that had been brought to her, she sobbed out her thanks.
In the busy life of a missionary the event was soon forgotten, until
one day a woman said, "Elder, do you recollect that 'ar Mrs. Sisco?"
"Yes."
"She is down with a fever, and so are her children."
At this news the minister started with the doctor to see her. As they
neared the place he noticed some red streaks gleaming in the woods,
and asked what they were.
"Oh," said the doctor, "that is from the widow's house. She had to
move into a stable of the deserted lumber camp."
The chinks had fallen out from the logs, and hence the gleam of fire.
The house was a study in shadows--the floor sticky with mud brought in
with the snow; the _débris_ of a dozen meals on the table; a lamp,
without chimney or bottom, stuck into an old tomato-can, gave its
flickering light, and revealed the poor woman, with nothing to shield
her from the storm but a few paper flour-sacks tacked back of the bed.
Two or three chairs, the children in the other bed, the baby in a
little soapbox on rockers, were all the wretched hovel contained.
Medicine was left her, and the minister's watch for her to time it. He
exchanged his watch for a clock the next day. By great persuasion the
proper authorities were made to put her in the poorhouse, and she was
lost to sight; but there was a bright ending in her case.
About a year after, a rosy-faced woman called at the parsonage. The
pastor said, "Come in and have some dinner."
"I got some one waiting," she said.
"Why, who is that?"
"My new man."
"What, you married again?"
"Yes; and we are just going after the rest of the traps up at the
shanty, and I called to see whether you would give me the little clock
for a keepsake?"
"Oh, yes."
Away she went as happy as a lark. Less than two years from the time
she was left a widow, a rich old uncle found in her his long-lost
niece, and the woman became heiress to thousands of dollars.
Sometimes dreadful scenes are witnessed at funerals where strong drink
has suddenly finished the career of father or mother. At the funeral
of a little child smothered by a drunken father, the mother was too
sick to be up at the funeral, the father too drunk to realize what was
taking place, and twice the service was stopped by drunken men. At
another funeral a dog-fight began under the coffin. The missionary
kicked the dogs out, and resumed as well as he could.
At another wretched home the woman was found dying, the husband drunk,
no food, mercury ten degrees below zero, and the little children
nearly perishing with cold. The drunken man pulled the bed from under
his dying wife while he went to sleep. His awakening was terrible, and
the house crowded at the funeral with morbid hearers.
In one town visited, a county town at that, the roughs had buried a
man alive, leaving his head above ground, and then preached a mock
funeral sermon, remarking as they left him, "How natural he looks!"
As the nearest minister is miles away, the missionary has to travel
many miles in all weathers to the dying and dead. Visiting the sick,
and sitting up with those with dangerous diseases, soon cause the
worst of men not only to respect but to love the missionary; and no
man has the moulding of a community so much in his hands as the
courageous and faithful servant of Christ. The first missionary on the
field leaves his stamp indelibly fixed on the new village. Towns left
without the gospel for years are the hardest of all places in which
to get a footing. Some towns have been without service of any kind for
years, and some of the young men and women have never seen a minister.
There are townships to-day, even in New York State, without a church;
and, strange as it may seem, there are more churchless communities in
Illinois than in any other State in the Union. Until two years ago
Black Rock, with a population of five thousand, had no church or
Sunday-school. Meanwhile such is the condition of the Home Missionary
Society's treasury that they often cannot take the students who offer
themselves, and the churchless places increase.
All kinds of people crowd to the front,--those who are stranded, those
who are trying to hide from justice, men speculating. Gambling dens
are open day and night, Sundays of course included, the men running
them being relieved as regularly as guards in the army.
In purely agricultural districts a different type is met with. Many
are so poor that the men have to go to the lumber woods part of the
year. The women thus left often become despondent, and a very large
per cent in the insane asylum comes from this class.
One family lived so far from town that when the husband died they were
obliged to make his coffin, and utilized two flour-barrels for the
purpose.
So amid all sorts and conditions of men, and under a variety of
circumstances, the minute-man lives, works, and dies, too often
forgotten and unsung, but remembered in the Book; and when God shall
make up his jewels, some of the brightest gems will be found among the
pioneers who carried the ark into the wilderness in advance of the
roads, breaking through the forest guided by the surveyor's blaze on
the trees.
There are hundreds of people who pierce into the heart of the country
by going up the rivers before a path has been made. In one home found
there, the minute-man had the bed in a big room down-stairs, while
the man, with his wife and nine children, went up steps like a
stable-ladder, and slept on "shakedowns," on a floor supported with
four rafters which threatened to come down. But the minute-man, too
tired to care, slept the sleep of the just. Often not so fortunate as
then, he finds a large family and but one room. Once he missed his
way, and had to crawl into two empty barrels with the ends knocked
out. Drawing them as close together as he could, to prevent draughts,
he had a short sleep, and awoke at four A.M. to find that a house and
bed were but twenty rods farther.
In a new village, for the first visit all kinds of plans are made to
draw the people out. Here is one: The minute-man calls at the school,
and asks leave to draw on the blackboard. Teacher and scholars are
delighted. After entertaining them for a while, he says, "Children,
tell your parents that the man who chalk-talked to you will preach
here at eight o'clock." And the youngsters, expecting another such
good time as they have just enjoyed, come out in force, bringing both
parents with them. The village is but two years old. At first the
people had the drinking-water brought five miles in barrels on the
railroad, and for washing melted the snow. Then they took maple sap,
and at last birch sap; but, "Law," said a woman, "it was dreadful
ironin'!"
[Illustration: A TYPICAL LOG HOUSE.
_Page 46._]
Here was a genuine pioneer: his house of logs, hinges wood, latch
ditto, locks none; a black bear, three squirrels, a turtle-dove, two
dogs, and a coon made up his earthly possessions. He was tired of the
place.
"Laws, Elder! when I fust come ye could kill a deer close by, and
ketch a string of trout off the doorsteps; but everything's sp'iled.
Men beginning to wear b'iled shirts, and I can't stand it. I shall
clear as soon as I can git out. Don't want to buy that b'ar, do ye?"
In this little town a grand minute-man laid down his life. He was so
anxious to get the church paid for, that he would not buy an
overcoat. Through the hard winter he often fought a temperature forty
degrees below zero; but at last a severe cold ended in his death. His
good wife sold her wedding-gown to buy an overcoat, but all too late;
and a bride of a twelvemonth went out a widow with an orphan in her
arms.
Yet the children of God are said to add to their already large store
four hundred million dollars yearly, and some think of building a
ten-million-dollar temple to honor God--while temples of the Holy
Ghost are too often left to fall, through utter neglect, because we
withhold the little that would save them. We shall never conquer the
heathen world for Christ until we have learned the way to save
America. Save America, and we can save the world.
IV.
THE IMMIGRANT ON THE FRONTIER.
Whatever may be the effect of immigrants in cities, the immigrant on
the frontier has sent the country ahead a quarter of a century. In the
first place, the pioneer immigrants are in the prime of life. They
generally bring enough money to make a start. They need houses, tools,
horses, and all the things needful to start. They seldom fail. Used to
privation at home, they make very hardy settlers. In some States they
comprise seventy per cent of the voters; and the getting of a piece of
land they can call their own makes good citizens of them sooner than
any other way. You can't make a dangerous kind of a man of him who can
call a quarter section his own.
In order to show how the pioneer settler from Europe prospers, let us
begin with him at the wharf. There floats the leviathan that has a
whole villageful on board,--over twelve hundred. They are on deck; and
a motley crowd they appear, for they are from all lands. Here is a
girl dressed in the picturesque costume of Western Europe, and here a
man with a great peak to his hat, an enormous long coat, his beard
half way down his breast, a china pipe as big as a small teacup in his
mouth, his wife like a bundle of meal tied in the middle, with immense
earrings, and an old colored handkerchief over her head. Behind them a
half-dozen little ones with towheads of hair, looking as shaggy as
Yorkshire terriers, blue-eyed and healthy. They are carrying copper
coffee
|
real estate is located.
MORTGAGES—Real Estate.
A mortgage is a transfer made with intent of giving mortgagee security
for money loaned or a debt in some way incurred. The mortgage is a deed
conveying to the mortgagee the owner’s title to the estate granted
in just the same way and with same formalities as a regular deed of
transfer, subject to one condition, which is, that the mortgage deed
shall be void if the amount therein specified is paid at the stated time.
After the delivery of the mortgage deed the relative standing of the
parties is this:
The mortgagee:
Unless the right is specially waived in the deed, he may enter and take
possession. He is therefore the owner subject to a condition, and has in
him the right of possession;
He may sell and assign to a third party his interest in the mortgaged
property, investing such person with all his rights therein;
When the stated time for payment, whether of principal or interest, has
elapsed, and the conditions have not been complied with, foreclosure of
mortgage may be commenced, and at the expiration of three years from
such commencement, he may take absolute possession of the estate, unless
mortgagor redeems it within that time;
He may insure mortgaged premises for his own protection.
The mortgagor:
He is not in possession of mortgaged premises by right, unless by special
permission;
He must pay all amounts designated in the mortgage deed, at the time
therein specified;
He may redeem the property at any time within three years after
commencement of foreclosure, by paying amount due; with interest and
legal costs.
He may sell his remaining interest (called equity of redemption), after
mortgage transfer, or procure other mortgages on same property.
Personal Property.
Mortgages of personal property are much more informal in their execution
than similar transfers of real estate. The transfer is a complete change
of ownership title, with similar conditional clause, relative to payment,
to that of a mortgage deed.
The several states make provisions for record of these conveyances, which
are to be observed in order to insure the proper security of mortgagee’s
title, since record has same significance with personal as with real
estate mortgage transfers.
A farther analogy may be found in the fact of a right of foreclosure and
equity of redemption.
Wills.
If at any time we were to say that “Every man his own lawyer” would be
giving to some very poor assistance, we think the suggestion would be
eminently proper here. This is not the word of discouragement, but of
caution, else the practicability of these articles, which is the theory
leading to their publication, might with propriety be questioned. There
is no department of legal work where more skill and care may be demanded
than in this. But though care is ever to be exercised, not always is
superior skill necessary, for one may desire a very simple and direct
disposition of his property, and this may be done if only the formalities
are observed, by one not conversant with the niceties of law points, and
done in such a proper and regular manner that all complications will be
avoided. But where different interests are to be carved out of an estate,
then the execution of it requires skill and experience.
Who may make a will? Any person who has attained proper age and is of
sound mind. By the old common law a married woman was not competent, but
this restriction has been removed by statutory enactment in most of the
states, and a married woman in those states is no longer forbidden the
disposition of her property in accordance with her own wishes.
Quite generally eighteen years for males and sixteen for females
are designated as proper ages. Children not mentioned in a will,
unless provided for in testator’s lifetime, are presumed to have been
accidentally omitted, and take same share of the estate as they would
if there had been no will. It will therefore be readily seen that if
omission was intentional, testator’s design would be defeated. Whenever
such omission of gift to a child is designed it should be particularly
mentioned in the will.
A codicil is simply an addition to or change in the will, and should be
attached to the original, and executed with same formalities.
In making a will be careful to observe:
That the person is of proper age and sound mind;
That all statements and declarations be made in clear, unambiguous
language, so that a misconception of it will be impossible;
That, in propriety, the word “bequeath” should be used as applied to
personal estate, and “devise” as belonging to real;
That, unless a life estate simply is intended, words of inheritance
(heirs) should be coupled with devisee’s name;
That, in most of the states, three witnesses are required. They should be
wholly disinterested, so far as having no personal interest in the will;
they should see the testator sign, and should each attach his signature
in testator’s presence, and in presence of the others;
That it is well for the testator to name an executor, although this is
not required, since in the absence of such directions the Court will
appoint an administrator.
OUTLINE OF FORM.
I ⸺ ⸺ of ⸺ ⸺ being of sound mind, hereby make and declare this
to be my last will and testament. I give, devise and bequeath my
estate and property, real and personal as follows:
[Then follow disposition of property and appointment of executor.]
In witness whereof I have signed, sealed, published and declared
this instrument to be my last will and testament, at ⸺ this ⸺ day
of ⸺.
⸺ ⸺ [SEAL]
The witnesses then add:
The said ⸺ ⸺ on said ⸺ day of ⸺ signed, published and declared
the above as his last will and testament; and we, at his request,
and in his presence, and in the presence of each other, have
hereunto subscribed our names as witnesses thereto.
⸺ ⸺
⸺ ⸺
⸺ ⸺
The destruction of a will revokes it. The making of a new will revokes
all former ones.
SUNDAY READINGS.
SELECTED BY THE REV. J. H. VINCENT, D.D.
[_May 4._]
Draw yet nearer, O, my soul! with thy _most fervent love_. Here is matter
for it to work upon, something worth thy loving. O see what beauty
presents itself! Is not all the beauty in the world united here? Is not
all other beauty but deformity? Dost thou now need to be persuaded to
love? Here is a feast for thine eyes and all the powers of thy soul; dost
thou need entreaties to feed upon it? Canst thou love a little shining
earth, a walking piece of clay? And canst thou not love that God, that
Christ, that glory, which are so truly and unmeasurably lovely? Thou
canst love thy friend because he loves thee; and is the love of a friend
like the love of Christ? Their weeping or bleeding for thee does not ease
thee, not stay the course of thy tears or blood; but the tears and blood
that fell from thy Lord have a sovereign, healing virtue. O my soul! If
love deserves and should beget love, what incomprehensible love is here
before thee! Pour out all the store of thy affections here, and all is
too little—O that it were more! O that it were many thousand times more!
Let him be first served that served the first. Let him have the first
born and strength of thy soul, who parted with strength, and life and
love for thee.
O my soul! dost thou love for _excellency_? Yonder is the region of
light; this is the land of darkness. Yonder twinkling stars, that shining
moon and radiant sun, are all but lanterns, hung out of thy Father’s
house, to light thee while thou walkest in this dark world. But how
little dost thou know the glory and blessedness that are within.
Dost thou love for _suitableness_? What person more suitable than
Christ—his god-head and humanity, his fullness and freeness, his
willingness and constancy, all proclaim him thy most suitable friend.
What state more suitable to thy misery than mercy, or to thy sin and
pollution than honor and perfection? What place more suitable to thee
than heaven? Does this world agree with thy desires? Hast thou not had a
sufficient trial of it, or dost thou love for interest and near relation?
Where hast thou better interest than in heaven, or nearer relation than
there?
Dost thou love for _acquaintance and familiarity_? Though thine eyes
have never seen thy Lord, yet thou hast heard his voice, received his
benefits, and lived in his bosom. He taught thee to know thyself and him;
he opened thee that first window, through which thou sawest into heaven.
Hast thou forgotten since thy heart was careless and he awakened it;
hard, and he softened it; stubborn, and he made it yield; at peace, and
he troubled it; whole, and he broke it; and broken, till he healed it
again? Hast thou forgotten the times when he found thee in tears; when he
heard thy secret sighs and groans, and left all to come and comfort thee?…
Methinks I hear him still saying to me, “Poor sinner, though thou hast
dealt unkindly with me, and cast me off, yet I will not do so by thee;
though thou hast set light by me and all my mercies, yet they and myself
are thine. What wouldst thou have that I can give thee? And what dost
thou want that I can not give thee? If anything I have will give thee
pleasure, thou shalt have it. Wouldst thou have pardon? I freely forgive
thee all the debt. Wouldst thou have grace and peace? Thou shalt have
both. Wouldst thou have myself? Behold I am thine, thy friend, thy Lord,
thy brother, husband and head. Wouldst thou have the Father? I will bring
thee to him, and thou shalt have him, in and by me.” These were my Lord’s
reviving words.
* * * * *
If _bounty and compassion_ be an attractive of love, how immeasurably,
then, am I bound to love him! All the mercies that have filled up my
life, all the places that ever I abode in, all the societies and persons
I have been conversant with, all my employments and relations, every
condition I have been in, and every change I have passed through, all
tell me that the fountain is overflowing goodness. Lord, what a sum of
love am I indebted to thee! And how does my debt continually increase!
How should I love again for so much love? But shall I dare to think of
requiting thee, or of recompensing all thy love with mine? Will my mite
requite thee for thy golden mines, my faint wishes for thy constant
bounty; mine, which is nothing, or not mine, for thine, which is infinite
and thine own? Shall I dare to contend in love with thee, or set my
borrowed languid spark against the sun of love?
* * * * *
No, Lord, I yield; I am overcome. O blessed conquest. Go on victoriously
and still prevail, and triumph in thy love. The captive of love shall
proclaim thy victory; when thou leadest me in triumph from earth to
heaven, from death to life, from the tribunal to the throne! myself, and
all that see it, shall acknowledge thou hast prevailed, and all shall
say, “Behold how he loved him.”—_From Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest,” abridged
by Fawcett._
[_May 11._]
For we, being accustomed to a careless and perfunctory performing of
these duties, can not but find it a hard and difficult matter to keep
our hearts so close unto them as to perform them as we ought to do, and
so as that we may be really said to do them. For we must not think that
sitting in the church while the word of God is preached, is hearing
the word of God, or being present there while prayers are read is real
praying; no, no, there is a deal more required than this to our praying
to the great God aright; insomuch that, for my own part, I really think
that prayer, as it is the highest, so it is the hardest duty that we can
be engaged in; all the faculties of our souls as well as members of our
bodies being obliged to put forth themselves in their several capacities,
to the due performance of it.
And as for these several graces and virtues with which our souls must be
adorned withal, before they ever can come to heaven, though it be easy
to talk of them, it is not so to act them. I shall instance only in some
few, as to love God above all other things, and other things only for
God’s sake; to hope on nothing but God’s promises, and to fear nothing
but his displeasure; to love other men’s persons so as to hate their
vices, and so to hate their vices as still to love their persons; not
to covet riches when we have them not, nor trust on them when we have
them; to deny ourselves that we may please God, and to take up our cross
that we may follow Christ; to live above the world whilst we are in it,
and to despise it whilst we use it; to be always upon our watchguard,
strictly observing not only the outward actions of our life, but the
inward motions of our hearts; to hate those very things which we used to
love, and to love those very duties which we used to hate; to choose the
greatest affliction before the least sin, and to neglect the getting of
the greatest gains rather than the performing of the smallest duty; to
believe truths which we can not comprehend, merely upon the testimony of
one whom we never saw; to submit our own wills to God’s and to delight
ourselves in obeying him; to be patient under sufferings, and thankful
for all the troubles we meet with here below; to be ready and willing to
do and suffer anything we can for him who hath done and suffered so much
for us; to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, relieve the indigent, and
rescue the oppressed to the utmost of our power; in a word, to be every
way as pious toward God, as obedient to Christ, as loyal to our prince,
as faithful to our friends, as loving to our enemies, as charitable to
the poor, as just in our dealings, as eminent in all true graces and
virtues, as if we were to be saved by it; and yet by no confidence in
it, but still look upon ourselves as unprofitable servants, and depend
upon Christ, and Christ alone for pardon and salvation.—_From “Private
Thoughts upon Religion and a Christian Life,” by Bishop Beveridge._
[_May 18._]
Now, upon the bank of the river, on the other side, they saw the two
Shining Men again, who there waited for them. Therefore, being come out
of the river, they saluted them, saying: “We are ministering spirits,
sent forth to minister for those who shall be heirs of salvation.” Thus
they went toward the gate.
Now, you must note that the city stood upon a mighty hill; but the
pilgrims went up that hill with ease, because they had these two men to
lead them up by the arms; they had likewise left their mortal garments
behind them in the river; for though they went in with them, they came
out without them. They therefore went up here with much agility and
speed, though the foundation upon which the city was framed was higher
than the clouds; they therefore went up through the regions of the air,
sweetly talking as they went, being comforted because they safely got
over the river, and had such glorious companions to attend them.
The talk that they had with the Shining Ones was about the glory of the
place; who told them that the beauty and glory of it was inexpressible.
There, said they, is “the Mount Zion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the
innumerable company of angels, and the spirits of just men made perfect.”
You are going now, said they, to the paradise of God, wherein you shall
see the tree of life, and eat of the never fading fruits thereof; and,
when you come there, you shall have white robes given you, and your
walk and talk shall be every day with the King, even all the days of
eternity. There you shall not see again such things as you saw when you
were in the lower region, upon the earth, to-wit: sorrow, sickness,
affliction and death; “for the former things are passed away.” You are
going now to Abraham, to Isaac, and to the prophets, men that God hath
taken away from the evil to come, and that are now resting upon their
beds, each one walking in his righteousness. The men then asked, What
must we do in the holy place? To whom it was answered: You must there
receive the comfort of all your toil, and have joy for all your sorrow;
you must reap what you have sown, even the fruit of all your prayers,
and tears, and sufferings for the King by the way. In that place you
must wear crowns of gold, and enjoy the perpetual sight and visions of
the Holy One; for there you shall see him as he is. There also you shall
serve him continually with praise, with shouting and thanksgiving, whom
you desired to serve in the world, though with much difficulty, because
of the infirmity of your flesh. There you shall enjoy your friends again
that are gone thither before you, and there you shall with joy receive
even every one that follows into the holy place after you. There also you
shall be clothed with glory and majesty, and put into an equipage fit to
ride out with the King of Glory.… Also when he shall again return to the
city, you shall go too, with sound of trumpet and be ever with him.—_From
Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress._
[_May 25._]
If we can make this with ourselves: I was in times past dead in
trespasses and sins, I walked after the prince that ruleth in the air,
and after the spirit that worketh in the children of disobedience; but
God, who is rich in mercy, through his great love, wherewith he loved
me, even when I was dead, hath quickened me in Christ. I was fierce,
heady, proud, high minded, but God hath made me like a child that is
newly weaned. I loved pleasures more than God; I followed greedily the
joys of this present world; I esteemed him that erected a stage or
theater more than Solomon which built a temple to the Lord; the harp,
viol, timbrel, and pipe, men singers and women singers were at my feast;
it was my felicity to see my children dance before me; I said of every
kind of vanity, O how sweet art thou unto my soul! All which things are
now crucified to me, and I to them; now I hate the pride of life, and
the pomp of this world; now I take as great delight in the way of thy
testimonies, O Lord, as in all riches; now I find more joy of heart in
my Lord and Savior, than the worldly minded man when “his possessions do
much abound;” now I taste nothing sweet but the bread which came down
from heaven, to give life unto the world; now my eyes see nothing but
Jesus rising from the dead; now my ears refuse all kinds of melody, to
hear the song of them that have gotten the victory of the beast and of
his image, and of his mark, and of the number of his name, that stand on
the sea of glass, “having the harps of God, and singing the song of Moses
the servant of God, and the song of the Lamb, saying, Great and marvelous
are thy works, Lord God Almighty; just and true are thy ways, O King of
saints.” Surely, if the Spirit have been thus effectual in the sacred
work of our regeneration with newness of life, if we endeavor thus to
form ourselves anew, then we may say boldly with the blessed apostle, in
the tenth to the Hebrews: We are not of them that withdraw ourselves to
perdition, but which follow faith to the salvation of the soul.…
The Lord of his infinite mercy give us hearts plentifully fraught with
the treasure of this blessed assurance of faith unto the end.—_From
Hooker._
* * * * *
All men have a rational soul and moral perfectibility; it is these
qualities which make the poorest peasant sacred and valued by me. Moral
perfectibility is our destiny, and here are opened up to the historian a
boundless field and a rich harvest.—_Forster._
READINGS IN ART.
II.—THE PAINTERS AND PAINTINGS OF NORTHERN EUROPE.
This paper is abridged from “German, Flemish and Dutch
Paintings,” by H. J. Wilmot Buxton, M.A., and Edward J. Poynter,
R.A.
Art in Germany and the Netherlands may be considered as beginning about
the middle of the fourteenth century. There is, however, no name of
importance in the German school of artists until the time of Albrecht
Dürer. Before him painters had shown little or no originality in their
work. They had followed the Byzantine models largely, and had been
influenced by the servile and narrow influences of the middle ages. With
the new intellectual and spiritual life which sprang up in the fifteenth
century, artistic life awoke in Germany. Dürer was the first and greatest
master of the school. He was born in Nuremberg on the 21st of May, 1471.
His father was a Hungarian, who settled in Nuremberg as a goldsmith.
Albrecht Dürer was taught his father’s trade, but fortunately his talent
for art was observed, and he was sent, in 1484, a boy of thirteen years,
to Schongauer. In 1486 he was apprenticed to Michael Wolgemut for three
years. From the studio of his master, Albrecht Dürer passed, in the year
1490, to a new world—he traveled; and in those “wander-years,” which
lasted till 1494, he was doubtless laying in stores of learning for the
after-time; but unfortunately we know nothing of those years, except
that he had a glimpse of Venice, the first sight of the Italian paradise
which, in his case, though seen again, never made him unfaithful to the
art of his fatherland. In 1494, Albrecht Dürer returned to Nuremberg, and
married Agnes Frey, the daughter of a singer. He received two hundred
florins with his wife for her dowry, and it has been said that with
her he found more than two thousand unhappy days. In 1506, Dürer again
traveled to Italy, and found a warm welcome from the painters at Venice,
a city which he now beheld for the second time. Doubtless he learned
much from the works which he saw, and the criticism which he heard, but,
fortunately for his country, he could go to Italy without becoming a
copyist. Giovanni Bellini paid him especial honor, and Dürer tells us
that he considered Bellini “the best painter of them all.”
Between the years 1507 and 1520, Dürer produced many of his most famous
works. In 1509, he bought a house for himself in the Zisselgasse, at
Nuremberg. In 1515 Raphael sent a sketch from his own pencil to his great
brother, who has been well styled the “Raphael of Germany.” The sketch is
in red chalk, and is preserved in the collection of the Archduke Charles,
at Vienna. In 1520 we find Dürer appointed court-painter to the emperor,
Charles V., a position which he had already held under Maximilian. His
own countrymen seem to have been niggardly in their reward of genius,
for the court-painter had only a salary of one hundred florins a year,
and painted portraits for a florin (about twenty English pence). In the
same year Dürer, accompanied by his wife, visited the Netherlands, and
at Antwerp, then the most important town of the Low Countries, both he
and his wife were entertained at a grand supper; the master has recorded
in his journal his pleasure at the honor bestowed upon him. At Ghent
and Bruges all were delighted to show their respect for his genius. At
Brussels, Dürer was summoned to the court of Margaret of Austria, Regent
of the Netherlands, to whom he presented several engravings. Either
through jealous intrigues, or from some other cause, his court favor was
of short duration. In Brussels he painted several portraits which were
never paid for, and for a time he was in straitened circumstances. Just
at this time, however, Christian II., king of Denmark, became acquainted
with him, and having shown every mark of honor to the painter, sat to him
for his portrait. Soon afterward he returned to Germany.
Once more at home in his beloved Nuremberg, Dürer wrote to remind the
Town Council that whilst the people of Venice and Antwerp had offered
him liberal sums to dwell among them, his own city had not given him
five hundred florins for thirty years of work. But we must pass to the
end. Whether the health of Albrecht Dürer had been injured by home cares
and the tongue of Agnes Frey, we know not, though many passages in his
letters and journal seem to point to this fact. He died on the 6th of
April, 1528, and was buried in the cemetery of St. John, at Nuremberg.
Most of Dürer’s works are to be found in Germany. In the Louvre there are
only three or four drawings. The Museum of Madrid possesses several of
his paintings—a “Crucifixion” (1513), showing the maturity of his genius,
two “Allegories” of the same type as the “Dance of Death,” so favorite
a subject at this period, and a “Portrait of Himself,” bearing the date
1496. At Munich we may trace, in a series of seventeen pictures, the
dawn, the noonday, and the evening of Albrecht Dürer’s art. The “Portrait
of his Father,” 1497, is one of his earliest works. His father was then
seventy years old. The color is warm and harmonious. The masterpiece of
Dürer’s art is the painting of the four apostles—“St. John, St. Peter,
St. Paul and St. Mark.” This wonderful work is clearly the production of
his later years; it bears no date, but the absence of the hardness, which
Michael Wolgemut’s workshop had imparted to his early style, is gone, and
the whole work shows the influence of his travels and unflagging study.
It is usually assigned to the year 1526. The picture has been supposed
to represent the “Four Temperaments,” but there is no satisfactory proof
that Dürer intended this.
Vienna possesses some of the finest specimens of his art. In the legend
of “The Ten Thousand Martyrs,” who were slain by the Persian king
Shahpour II., Dürer has described on a panel of about a foot square every
conceivable kind of torture. These horrors are witnessed by two figures
which represent the painter himself, and his friend Pirkheimer.
The “Adoration of the Trinity” is one of the most famous of Dürer’s
works. It is a vast allegorical picture, representing the Christian
Religion.
Of his wood-cuts the best known are the “Apocalypse,” 1498; the “Life
of the Virgin,” 1511; and the “History of Christ’s Passion.” Of his
copper-plate engravings, “St. Hubert,” “St. Jerome,” and “The Knight,
Death, and the Devil,” bearing the date 1513, in which we see what Kugler
calls “the most important work which the fantastic spirit of German art
has ever produced.” The weird, the terrible, and the grotesque look forth
from this picture like the forms of some horrible nightmare. Another
famous engraving, called “Melancholy,” is full of mystic poetry; it bears
the date 1514. To these may be added a series of sixteen drawings in pen
and ink on gray paper, heightened with white, representing “Christ’s
Passion,” which he never engraved. They are in his best style, and among
the finest of his works.
HANS HOLBEIN.
Contemporary with Dürer lived another great artist, Hans Holbein. He was
born at Augsburg, in 1497. Comparing him with Albrecht Dürer, Kugler
says that “as respects grandeur and depth of feeling, and richness of
his invention and conception in the field of ecclesiastical art, he
stands below the great Nuremberg painter. Though not unaffected by the
fantastic element which prevailed in the Middle Ages, Holbein shows it
in his own way.” What we know of Holbein’s life must be told briefly. He
was painting independently, and for profit, when only fifteen. He was
only twenty when he left Augsburg and went to Bâle. There he painted his
earliest known works, which still remain there. In 1519, after a visit to
Lucerne, we find him a member of the Guild of Painters at Bâle, and years
later he was painting frescoes for the walls of the Rathaus—frescoes
which have yielded to damp and decay, and of which fragments only remain.
These are in the Museum of Bâle, as well as eight scenes from “The
Passion,” which belong to the same date. Doubtless Holbein had gone
to Bâle poor, and in search of any remunerative work. It is said that
he and his brother Ambrose visited that city with the hope of finding
employment in illustrating books, an art for which Bâle was famous. Hans
Holbein was destined, however, to find a new home and new patrons. In
1526, Holbein went to England. The house of Sir Thomas More, in Chelsea,
received him, and there he worked as an honored guest—painting portraits
of the ill-fated Chancelor and his family. Of other portraits painted at
this time that of “Sir Bryan Tuke,” treasurer of the king’s chamber, now
in the collection of the Duke of Westminster, and that of “Archbishop
Warham,” in the Louvre, are famous specimens. Having returned to Bâle for
a season, hard times forced Holbein to seek work once more in England.
This was in 1532, when he was taken into the service of Henry VIII., a
position not without its dangers. He was appointed court-painter at a
salary of thirty-four pounds a year, with rooms in the palace. The amount
of this not very magnificent stipend is proved from an entry in a book at
the Chamberlain’s office, which, under the date of 1538, contains these
words: “Payd to Hans Holbein, Paynter, a quarter due at Lady Day last, £8
10_s._ 9_d._”
Holbein was employed to celebrate the marriage of Anne Boleyn by painting
two pictures in tempera in the Banqueting Hall of the Easterlings, at the
Steelyard. He chose the favorite subjects for such works, “The Triumph of
Riches,” and “The Triumph of Poverty.” The pictures probably perished in
the Great Fire of London. In 1538, Holbein was engaged on a very delicate
mission, considering the matrimonial peculiarities of his royal master.
He was sent to Brussels to paint the “Portrait of Christina,” widow of
Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, whom Henry would have made his queen,
had she been willing. Soon after, having refused an earnest invitation
from Bâle to return there, Holbein painted an aspirant to the royal hand,
Anne of Cleves. Perhaps the painter flattered the lady; at all events
the original was so distasteful to the king that he burst into a fit of
rage which cost Thomas Cromwell his head. Holbein continued his work as a
portrait painter, and has left us many memorials of the Tudor Court. He
died in 1543, of the plague, but nothing is known of his burial place.
Some time before his death we hear of him as a resident in the parish of
St. Andrew Undershaft, in the city.
The fame of this great master rests almost entirely upon his power as
a portrait painter. In the collection of drawings at Windsor, mostly
executed in red chalk and Indian ink, we are introduced to the chief
personages who lived in and around the splendid court in the troublous
times of the second Tudor.
JOHANN FRIEDRICH OVERBECK.
After the death of Dürer and Holbein the German school did not long
hold its supremacy. Its decline was rapid, and not until the present
century was there a re-awakening. Johann Friedrich Overbeck, the chief
of the revivalists of German art, was born at Lübeck, in 1789. When
about eighteen years of age he went to Vienna, to study painting in the
academy of that city. The ideas on art which he had carried with him
were so entirely new and so little agreeable to the professors of the
academy, that they met with but small approval. On the other hand, there
were several among his fellow-pupils who gladly followed his lead; and in
1810, Overbeck, accompanied by a small band of youthful artists, went to
Rome, where he established the school which was afterward to become so
famous.
Overbeck, who was professor of painting in the Academy of St. Luke, a
foreign member of the French Institute, and a member of all the German
academies, died at Rome in 1869, at the advanced age of eighty years. He
painted both in fresco and in oil. Of his productions in fresco, the most
noteworthy are a “Vision of St. Francis” in Santa Maria degli Angeli, at
Assisi, and five scenes from Tasso’s “Jerusalem Delivered,” in the villa
of the Marchese Massimo, in Rome. Of his oil paintings, the best are the
“Triumph of Religion in the Arts,” in the Städel Institute at Frankfort;
“Christ on the Mount of Olives,” at Hamburg; the “Entrance of Christ
into Jerusalem,” painted in 1816 for the Marien Kirche, at Lübeck; and
a “Descent from the Cross,” at Lübeck. Overbeck also executed a number
of small drawings. Of these we may mention forty designs of the “Life of
Christ,” and many other Biblical subjects.
THE SCHOOL OF THE NETHERLANDS.
In the Netherlands, we find before the seventeenth century, two schools
of art; that of Bruges, whose most famous painters were the brothers Van
Eyck, and that of Antwerp, whose founder, Matsys, did some fine work. It
was not until the beginning of the seventeenth century, however, that
art in the Netherlands attained its full strength and life. The artist
to whom the revival was due was Peter Paul Rubens. He was born on the
day of the festival of St. Peter and St. Paul—the 29th of June, 1577, at
Siegen, in Westphalia. His father was a physician, who being suspected of
Protestant proclivities, had been forced to flee from his native town of
Antwerp, and was subsequently imprisoned, not without cause, by William
of Orange, whose side he had joined. When Peter Paul was a year old,
his parents removed to Cologne, where they remained for nine years, and
then on the death of her husband, the mother of Rubens returned with her
child to Antwerp. Young Rubens was sent to a Jesuit school, doubtless
in proof of his mother’s soundness in the faith of Rome, and studied
art. Fortunately for the world, Rubens possessed too original a genius
to be much influenced by his masters. He visited Italy in 1600, where
the coloring of the Venetians exercised a great influence upon the young
painter, and we may consider Paolo Veronese as the source of inspiration
from which Rubens derived the
|
near and gave a loud yell. It
cautioned Sulayman and threatened to devour him. Sulayman in his
turn threatened to kill Tarabusaw. The animal said to Sulayman, "If
you kill me, I shall die the death of a martyr," and as it said these
words it broke large branches from the trees and assailed Sulayman. The
struggle lasted a long while, until at last the animal was exhausted
and fell to the ground; thereupon Sulayman struck it with his sword
and killed it. As the animal was dying it looked up to Sulayman
and congratulated him on his success. Sulayman answered and said,
"Your previous deeds brought this death on you."
The next place Sulayman went to was Mount Bita. Here the devastation
was worse still. Sulayman passed by many houses, but they were
all vacant and not a soul lived there. "Alas, what havoc and what
misfortune has befallen this country!" he exclaimed, as he went
on. But suddenly there came a darkness upon the land and Sulayman
wondered what it could mean. He looked up to the sky and beheld a
wonderful and huge bird descending from the sky upon him. He at once
recognized the bird and understood its purpose, and as quick as he
could draw his sword he struck the bird and cut off its wing. The
bird fell dead, but its wing fell on Sulayman and killed him.
At this same time Raja Indarapatra was sitting in his window, and he
looked and saw the little tree wither and dry up. "Alas!" he said,
"Raja Sulayman is dead;" and he wept.
Sad at heart but full of determination and desire for revenge, he got
up, put on his sword and belt, and came over to Mindanao to search
for his brother. He traveled in the air with wonderful speed and came
to Kabalalan first. There he looked around and saw the bones of the
Kurita and concluded that his brother had been there and had gone. At
Matutun he saw the bones of Tarabusaw, but Sulayman was not there. So
he passed on to Mount Bita and resumed the search. There he saw the
dead bird lying on the ground, and as he lifted the severed wing,
he saw the bones of Sulayman, and recognized them by means of the
sword that was lying by their side. As he looked at the sword and at
the bones he was overwhelmed with grief and wept with tears. Raising
up his head he turned around and beheld a small jar of water near
him. He knew that the jar was sent down from heaven, so he took it
and poured its water on the bones of his brother, and his brother
came to life again. Sulayman stood up, greeted his brother, and
talked with him. Raja Indarapatra had thought that Sulayman was dead,
but Sulayman assured him that he had not been dead, but that he had
been asleep. Raja Indarapatra rejoiced and life and happiness filled
his heart.
Raja Sulayman returned after that to Mantapuli, but Raja Indarapatra
continued his march to Mount Gurayn. There he met the dreadful bird
that had seven heads and killed it with his sword, Juru Pakal.
Having destroyed all these noxious animals, and having restored
peace and safety to the land, Raja Indarapatra set himself searching
for the people that might have escaped destruction. He was of the
opinion that some people must have contrived to hide in the earth
and that they might be alive yet. One day during his search he saw
a beautiful woman at some distance, and as he hastened to meet her
she disappeared quickly through a hole in the ground where she was
standing. Having become tired and pressed with hunger, he sat down on
a rock to rest. Looking around for food, he saw a pot full of uncooked
rice and a big fire on the ground in front of it. Coming to the fire
he placed it between his legs and put the pot over his knees to cook
the rice. While so occupied he heard a person laugh and exclaim,
"Oh, what a powerful person this man is!" He turned around and,
lo, there was an old woman near by looking at him and wondering how
he could cook his rice on a fire between his legs. The woman drew
nearer and conversed with Raja Indarapatra, who ate his rice and
stood talking to her. He inquired of her about her escape and about
the inhabitants of the land. She answered that most of them had been
killed and devoured by the pernicious animals, but that a few were
still alive. She and her old husband, she said, hid in a hollow tree
and could not come out from their hiding place until Raja Sulayman
killed the awful bird, Pah. The rest of the people and the datu, she
continued, hid in a cave in the ground and did not dare to come out
again. He urged her to lead him to the cave and show him the people,
and she did so. The cave was very large, and on one side of it were
the apartments of the datu and his family. He was ushered into the
presence of the datu and was quickly surrounded by all the people who
were in the cave. He related to them his purpose and his mission and
what he had accomplished and asked them to come out and reinhabit the
land. There he saw again the beautiful girl whom he had observed at
the opening of the cave. She was the daughter of the datu, and the
datu gave her to him in marriage in appreciation of the good he had
done for them and the salvation he had brought to the land. The people
came out of the cave and returned to their homes, where they lived
in peace and prosperity again. At this time the sea had withdrawn
and the lowland had appeared.
One day as Raja Indarapatra was considering his return home he
remembered Sulayman's ring and went out to search for it. During
the search he found a net near the water and stopped to fish to
replenish his provisions for the continuation of the march. The net
caught a quantity of buganga fish, some of which he ate. Inside one
of the fish he found his ring. This cheered Raja Indarapatra's heart
and completed his joy. Later he bade his father-in-law and his wife
good-bye and returned to Mantapuli pleased and happy.
Raja Indarapatra's wife was pregnant at the time of their parting and
a few months later gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. The boy's
name was Rinamuntaw and the girl's name was Rinayung. These two persons
are supposed to be the ancestors of some of the Ranao tribes or datus.
This narration was secured from Datu Kali Adam, who learned it from
the late Maharaja Layla of Magindanao and from Alad, one of the oldest
and most intelligent Moros living. Alad says that Mantapuli was a very
great city far in the land of the sunset; where, exactly, he does not
know, but he is sure it was beyond the sea. Mantapuli was so large,
he said, and its people were so numerous, that it blurred the eyes
to look at them move; they crushed the bamboo very fine if it was
laid in the street one day.
Raja Indarapatra is the mythological hero of Magindanao and Mantapuli
is his city. These names are very frequently mentioned in Moro stories,
and various miracles are ascribed to them.
Kabalalan, Matutun, Bita, and Gurayn are the most prominent and
picturesque peaks of Mindanao and Ranao with which the Moros are
familiar. The whole narration is native and genuine, and is typical
of the Magindanao style and superstitions. Some Arabic names and
Mohammedan expressions have crept into the story, but they are really
foreign and scarcely affect the color of the story.
The animal Kurita seems to bear some resemblance to the big crocodiles
that abound in the Rio Grande River. Tarabusaw may signify a large
variety of ape. A heinous bird is still worshiped and is greatly
feared by the Tirurays and Manobos who live in the mountains south
of Cotabato. The hateful Balbal, in which all Moros believe, is
described as a night bird, and its call is supposed to be familiar
and distinctly audible every night.
What relation the names of Rinamuntaw and Rinayung bear to the
ancestors of the Ranao Moros it will be very interesting to find out
in the future.
MANUSCRIPTS
MANUSCRIPT NO. I
FROM ADAM TO MOHAMMED
THE GENEALOGY OF MOHAMMED
This manuscript was copied from Datu Mastura's book. It relates,
in the dialect of Magindanao, what the Moros of Mindanao know about
Adam, the death of Abel, and the ancestors of the Prophet Mohammed.
The first line is Arabic and is generally written at the beginning
of every book they write. The second line is Malay; this also is the
rule with most Moro writers. The Moros derived what learning they
have from Malay and Arabic sources, and consequently take pride in
what Malay and Arabic they know and can write; hence their custom of
beginning their books with an Arabic and Malay introduction.
LITERAL TRANSLATION OF MANUSCRIPT NO. I
IN THE NAME OF GOD THE COMPASSIONATE AND THE MERCIFUL
This chapter speaks of the story of the prophet of God, Adam. Adam and
Sitti Kawa (Eve) begot first the twins Abdu-l-Lah and Amata-l-Lah. They
also begot Abdu-r-Rakman and Amatu-r-Rakman, other twins. They also
begot Habil (Abel) and Kalima, who were twins also. They again begot
Kabil (Cain) and Aklayma, his sister; these also were twins.
A STORY ABOUT HABIL AND KABIL
Kabil killed Habil in order to take away his wife. Adam and Sitti
Kawa wept on the death of Habil, therefore God sent Jabrayil
(Gabriel) to admonish them. The Lord said to Jabrayil, "If they
simply lament for their child, I will restore him to them." The
Lord then replaced him by the prophet of God, Sit.
Sit begot Yanas. Yanas begot Kinana. Kinana begot
Mahalayla. Mahalayla begot Idris. Idris begot Uknuk. Uknuk begot
Mustáwsalik. [6] Lamik, Nuk, Samir, Paksal, Sakih, Amir, Palik,
Ragu, Ruk, Pakur, Azara, Ibrahim, Ismayil, Sabit, Yaskib, Yarab,
Batrik, Taku, Mukáwim, Ádadi, Adnani, Madi, Nazar, Mudri, Ilyas,
Mudákih, Karima, Kinana, Nadri, Malik, Kahri, Galib, Lúway,
Kabu, Múrat, Kilab, Kusay, Abdu-l-Manap, Hasim, Abdu-l-Mútalib,
Abdu-l-Lah, Mohammed, may the mercy and the blessing of God be his.
The father of Baginda (Caliph or Sayid) Ali was Talib. The father
of Usman was Apan. The father of Umar was Kattab. Abu Bakar was
surely beloved by God.
[The End]
MANUSCRIPT NO. II
THE GENEALOGY OF KABUNGSUWAN AND HIS COMING TO MAGINDANAO; OR, THE
CONVERSION OF MAGINDANAO TO ISLAM
INTRODUCTION
PART I
This manuscript is a copy of the original in the possession of
Datu Mastura of Magindanao. The original copy is neat and very well
written. It gives first the descent of Kabungsuwan from Mohammed,
then a narrative of his departure from Juhur, his arrival in Mindanao,
and the conversion of the people of Mindanao to Islam. The latter half
of it gives the genealogy of the reigning family of Bwayan from Pulwa
to Pakih Mawlana and Pakaru-d-Din, his brother. It is a very good type
of the style and composition of the Mindanao dialect. It is original
and borrows nothing of its text and form from either Malay or Arabic.
The combination of the genealogy of Bwayan with the story of the
conversion of Magindanao to Islam brings the history of Bwayan into
attention before that of Mindanao; but, as very little is known of
the early history of Bwayan, it matters not when it comes.
The rule of Bwayan extends all the way from the head of the delta
or from the Kakal (canal) to Bagu-Ingud, which is a few miles below
Piket. In fact the datus of the surrounding country, all through the
upper valley of the Rio Grande, owed more or less allegiance to the
rulers of Bwayan through all ages.
The sultan of Bwayan is known as Raja Bwayan. The rajas of Bwayan
attained a distinction and a power second to none, except that of the
sultan of Magindanao. The greatest datus of Bwayan who have figured
prominently in the recent history of the country are Datu Utu and
Datu Ali of Tinunkup, both of whom will be referred to later.
Diagram No. 1 ends with Sultan Sakandar. The relation between him
and Sultan Maytum, the next raja of Bwayan, is not given in the
records. The second diagram begins with Sultan Maytum and ends with
the present generation of rulers.
PART II
Diagrams Nos. 1 and 2 show plainly that the sultanate of Bwayan did
not follow any direct line of succession, that the rajas of Bwayan did
not always stay at Bwayan, and that Bwayan was not the only capital of
the sultanate. The datus and the sultans of the neighboring datuships
who married the principal princesses of Bwayan seem to have assumed
the title of Raja Bwayan also.
The order of succession was a very complicated one. It is not stated
in the records nor can it be exactly inferred from the genealogies
kept. Sharif Ali of Sapakan gives the following order:
1. Raja Sirungan
2. Sultan Tambingag Kaharu-d-Din
3. Sultan Sabaraba Jamalu-d-Din
4. Kayib Alimu-d-Din
5. Malang Jalalu-d-Din
6. Sahid Amiru-d-Din
7. Sakandar Jamalu-l-Alam
8. Pakir Mawlana Alimu-d-Din
9. Sultan Maytum
Sharif Afdal of Dulawan gives the following order:
1. Raja Sirungan
2. Datu Maputi
3. Tapudi
4. Tamay
5. Malang
6. Sakandar, Sultan of Lakungan
7. Burhan
8. Jamalu-l-Alam
9. Banswil
10. Sayid Wapat
11. Pakih
12. Maytum
These two orders represent the best opinions of the Saraya or upper
valley, but there is no doubt that both of them are wrong. The order
of Sharif Ali is, generally speaking, nearer the truth. From an
examination of the records the following order seems the best of all:
1. Raja Sirungan
2. Datu Maputi
3. Tambingag
4. Datu Tapudi
5. Baratamay
6. Sabaraba
7. Malang
8. Manuk
9. Sakandar
10. Maytum
Sultan Kayib given by Sharif Ali probably is Baratamay. There is
no indication in the records that Tamay, Burhan, Jamalu-l-Alam, and
Banswil were ever rajas of Bwayan, as Sharif Afdal seems to think. The
records that seem most reliable are those in the possession of Datu
Mastura, which are herein translated.
The missing link, as far as these records and the notes of the
author are concerned, is the relation between Sultan Maytum and
his predecessors. Common opinion declares him to be a son of Pakir
Mawlana, but this does not seem probable, and it is certainly not in
the records of Magindanao, though these are reasonably accurate and
complete. Sharif Ali, in his list, makes no distinction between a
successor and a son; most people have the same idea, which is very
misleading, to say the least. From the facts obtainable it seems
probable that Sultan Maytum was the son of either Sultan Sakandar of
Rakungan or Datu Maputi, the uncle of Sakandar. This is corroborated
by the fact that the chief line of descent has been in the line of
Datu Maputi, the son of Raja Sirungan, and his grandson, Sabaraba. The
opinion of the sheikh-a-datu of Mindanao is that Sultan Maytum was the
son of Datu Maputi, who would be the most eligible to the succession.
Jamalu-l-Alam mentioned here is Sultan Kaharu-d-Din Kuda of
Magindanao. Sahid Wapat, or Amiru-d-Din, is Sultan Japar Sadik Manamir
of Magindanao. Mupat Batwa is Sultan Dipatwan Anwar. Pakih Mawlana
Alimu-d-Din is Sultan Pakir Mawlana Kayru-d-Din Kamza. Panglu is
Sultan Pakaru-d-Din.
From Sultan Maytum down the succession is accurately known. The
sultanate has evidently been divided. Marajanun or Bangun, the older
brother, succeeded to Bwayan and all the country lying on the left
bank of the Pulangi and the Sapakan Rivers and all the country between
Sapakan and the lakes of Ligwasan and Bulawan. Bayaw, known as the
sultan of Kudarangan, succeeded to Kudarangan and all the northern
half of the sultanate.
Datu Utu succeeded his father, Marajanun, and lived first at
Bwayan. After the Terrero campaign of 1886 he moved to Sapakan. His
full name is Sultan Anwaru-d-Din Utu.
The sultan of Kudarangan was succeeded by his son, the sultan of
Tambilawan. Tambilawan is the name of the sultan's residence and
lies on the right bank of the Rio Grande a short distance above
Kudarangan. The sultan of Tambilawan is a weak leader, and the chief
power of the land has fallen to his brother, Datu Ali, who is a noted
warrior among the Moros.
LITERAL TRANSLATION OF MANUSCRIPT NO. II
PRAISE BE TO GOD. I HAVE FULL SATISFACTION THAT GOD IS MY WITNESS
This book gives the genealogy of the descendants of the Apostle of God
who came into Magindanao. It is learned that the Apostle of God begot
Patima Zuhrah, who begot Sarip [7] Hasan and Sarip Husayn. The latter
begot Sarip Zayna-l-Abidin; Sarip Mohammadu-l-Bakir; Sarip Japar Sadik;
Sarip Ali; Sarip Isa; Sarip Akmad; Sarip Abdu-l-Lah; Sarip Mohammad
Alawi; Sarip Ali; Sarip Alawi; Sarip Abdu-l-Lah; Sarip Ali; Sarip
Mohammad; Sarip Abdu-l-Lah; Sarip Akmad; Sarip Ali Zayna-l-Abidin.
Sarip Zayna-l-Abidin came to Juhur and heard that the sultan of Juhur,
Sultan Sulkarnayn, had a daughter called Putri Jusul Asikin. The Sarip
married Putri Jusul Asikin and begot Sarip Kabungsuwan. As Sarip
Kubungsuwan grew up and reached maturity he obtained his father's
permission and set out on a sea voyage with a large number of followers
from Juhur. As they got out to the open sea they unfurled their sails
to make speed, but a very strong wind blew and scattered them in all
directions, so that they lost track of one another. As a result Sarip
Kabungsuwan arrived at Magindanao. The others scattered to Bulunay
(Bruney), Kuran, Tampasuk, Sandakan, Palimbang, Bangjar, Sulug, Tubuk,
and Malabang.
Sarip Kabungsuwan anchored at Natúbakan, at the mouth of the Rio
Grande. Tabunaway and Mamalu directed some people of Magindanao
to carry their net for them and went down to the mouth of the
river. There they met Sarip Kabungsuwan, and Tabunaway sent Mamalu
up the river to bring down all the men of Magindanao. After the
arrival of the men Tabunaway invited Kabungsuwan to accompany him
to Magindanao. Kabungsuwan refused to accompany them unless they
became Moslems. Tabunaway and Mamalu then repeated their invitation
and all of them promised to become Moslems. Kabungsuwan insisted that
he would not land at all unless they came together then and there and
were washed and became Mohammedans. This they did, and on account of
the bathing at that place they changed its name to Paygwan.
Kabungsuwan then accompanied Tabunaway and Mamalu, and the men towed
them up all the way from Tinundan to Magindanao. Thus Kabungsuwan
converted to Islam all the people of Magindanao, Matampay, Slangan,
Simway, and Katitwan.
Soon after his arrival in Magindanao Sarip Kabungsuwan married Putri
Tunina, whom Mamalu found inside a stalk of bamboo. This occurred at
the time Tabunaway and Mamalu were cutting bamboo to build their fish
corral. As Mamalu, who was felling the bamboo tree returned, Tabunaway
inquired whether all the tree was felled or not. Mamalu answered that
all the tree was felled except one young stalk. Tabunaway then said,
"Finish it all, because it omens ill to our fish corral to leave that
one alone." Mamalu struck it and it fell down, and there came out of
it a child who was called Putri Tunina. Her little finger was wounded,
for the bolo had cut through the bamboo.
Some time later Sarip Kabungsuwan and Putri Tunina begot three
children--Putri Mamur, Putri Milagandi, and Bay Batula. Putri Mamur
married Malang-sa-Ingud, the datu of Bwayan. Malang-sa-Ingud died
later, and Pulwa, his brother, came down to Magindanao and married
the widow of his elder brother, Putri Mamur.
Malang-sa-Ingud and Pulwa were the children of Budtul. Budtul was
the son of Mamu, the first datu of Bwayan.
Pulwa and Putri Mamur begot Raja Sirungan, who was the first raja
of Bwayan. Raja Sirungan begot Datu Maputi, Tambingag, Tangkwag,
and the daughters Kdaw, Banitik, Malilumbun, Duni, and Libu.
Datu Maputi begot two daughters, Gimbulanan and Gawang. Gawang married
Datu Tapudi of Tawlan and begot Sabaraba and a daughter, Dumbay. Dumbay
begot Tamay, who married a concubine and begot Linug-Bulawan and the
daughters Nanun, Pinayu, Antanu, and Putri.
Sabaraba begot Datu Maputi and Malang, who was Raja Bwayan, in
Bwayan. Malang begot Sakandar, who was sultan of Rakungan.
Tambingag begot Burhan and the daughters Kalima, Tambil, and
Sinal. Sinal married Jamalu-l-Alam, who was treacherously murdered. She
bore Banswil and Kuning. Kuning was married to Sahid Wapat and begot
Pakih Mawlana and Panglu, who was Mupat Hidayat, and the daughters
Salilang, entitled Baya-labi, and Gindulungan, who was the mother of
Baya-labi of Lakungan.
Tangkwag begot Mukarna and Buntang, who was the son of a concubine.
Kdaw was married to Makadulu and begot Baratamay and Bani. Makadulu
begot also Undung and Nawang by a concubine.
Baratamay married Gimbulanan and begot Lalanu, entitled Baya Budtung,
who married Sultan Barahaman and died without offspring; she was
overshadowed by Panabwan, a lady of Tajiman.
Baratamay and Bani were both born of a princess; so one day Baratamay
said to Bani, "You rule Bwayan, for I am going away and shall be
absent," and Baratamay left for Sulug. There he married a lady of Sulug
and begot Pangyan Ampay. Some time after that Baratamay returned to
the land of Bwayan and went up as far as Bagu Ingud. There he married a
lady of Bagu Ingud and begot Munawal and Gangga. Munawal married Mupat
Batwa and begot Manuk, Raja Bwayan in Bagu Ingud. Manuk begot Manman,
Tapudi, and Raja Muda of Matingawan. Manman was sultan of Bagu Ingud.
Baratamay begot also Tuntu, who begot Dungkulang, a datu of Kabulukan,
and Ambuludtu, and Ugu Niga; also Pandaligun, Anib, Kabaw, Manabu,
Talibubu, Danaw, and the daughters Gayang and Tundwan. These were
all the children of Baratamay--in all, fourteen.
[The End]
MANUSCRIPT NO. III
THE GENEALOGY OF BWAYAN
INTRODUCTION
This manuscript is copied from a scroll written for the sultan of
Kudarangan by Twan Kali, a noted Moro judge who was in the service
of the sultan. It was obtained through the favor of Sharif Afdal,
the son-in-law of the late sultan.
The few books or documents belonging to the family of Bwayan or
Kudarangan that I have seen are neat and well written. The dialect
spoken in Saraya differs a little from that of Magindanao, but in the
main they are one and the same dialect. This manuscript is strictly
Magindanao in its dialect and in its style. The first two pages of
this copy give the genealogy of Kabungsuwan from Mohammed and Adam;
it is similar to that of Manuscripts Nos. I and II, and ends with
Putri Mamur, the daughter of Sarip Kabungsuwan, who married Pulwa,
the first Mohammedan datu of Bwayan.
The second part gives the descendants of Pulwa and the genealogy of
the rajas of Bwayan. This is, however, incomplete and deficient. It
stops at the seventh generation, which is practically midway, and
does not distinctly state who were the rajas of Bwayan.
It is fuller than Manuscript No. II in giving the descendants of all
the sons of Raja Sirungan, but it does not proceed in the main line
of descent as far and as fully as Manuscript No. II. The original
scroll from which this copy was taken is evidently older than Datu
Mastura's copy.
LITERAL TRANSLATION OF MANUSCRIPT NO. III
PART I
... Mahlayl begot Uknuk, who is Idris. Idris begot Mustawsilik,
Lamik, the prophet of God Nuh, Samir, Arpaksal, Sakih, Amir, Palih,
Ragu, Saruk, Pakur, Azara, the prophet of God Ibrahim, Ismayil, Sabit,
Yuskab, Yarab, Yatrah, Taku, Makum, Adadi, Adnani, Madi, Nazar, Madri,
Ilyas, Mudrika, Karima, Kinana, Nalil, Malik, Kahri, Galib, Lway,
Kabun, Murrat, Kilab, Kusay, Abdul-Manap, Hashim, Abd-l-Muttalib,
Abd-l-Lah, Mohammed, the Apostle of God.
The Apostle of God, Mohammed, begot Patima Zuhrah; Sayid Sarip
Husayn; Sarip Ali Akbar and Ali Asgar and Zayna-l-Abidin and Patima;
Sarip Zayna-l-Abidin begot Sarip Mohammed; Bakir; Sarip Japar Sadik;
Sarip Ali; Sarip Mohammed; Sarip Isa; Sarip Akmad; Sarip Abdullah;
Sarip Alawi; Sarip Mohammed; Sarip Alawi; Sarip Ali; Sarip Mohammed;
Sarip Alawi; Sarip Abdu-r-Rakman; Sarip Akmad; Sarip Abdullah; Sarip
Ali; Sarip Mohammed; Sarip Abdullah; Sarip Akmad; Sarip Ali; Sarip
Mohammed; Sarip Husayn; Sarip Ali Bakar; Sarip Ali, not the former
Ali, but the one who came to Juhur and married the sister of Sultan
Iskandar of Juhur. They begot Sarip Kabungsuwan. Sarip Kabungsuwan
begot, in Juhur, Sambgan and a daughter, Mazawang.
Some time after that Sarip Kabungsuwan came to Magindanao and
married Putri Tunina, whom Tabunaway and Mamalu found inside the
bamboo. By Putri Tunina he begot Putri Milagandi and Putri Mamur. Sarip
Kabungsuwan brought his children Sambgan and Mazawang to the town of
Magindanao. This finishes the book relative to the earlier ancestors.
PART II
The first ruler of Bwayan was Mamu.
In the name of God the Compassionate and Merciful. The first datu
of the town of Bwayan was Mamu. Mamu begot Budtul. Budtul begot
Pulwa and Malang-sa-Ingud. Pulwa married Putri Mamur in the town of
Magindanao. Putri Mamur was the daughter of Sarip Kabungsuwan from
Putri Tunina, whom Tabunaway and Mamalu found inside the bamboo. Pulwa
begot Raja Sirungan from Putri Mamur. By another wife he begot Dikaya;
by a concubine, Sababnun, Butaku, and Balatukay. Raja Sirungan begot
Datu Maputi, Kdaw, Tambingag, Tungkwang, Binitis, Malilimbun, Duni,
Libu.
The children of Datu Maputi were all girls. The oldest was Gimbulanan,
another was Gawang. Tapudi, a Tawlan datu, married Gayang and begot
Sabaraba and a daughter, Dumbay. Dumbay begot Tamay. Tamay married
a concubine and begot Linug Bulawan and the daughters Nanum, Pinayu,
Antanu, and Putri.
Sabaraba begot Datu Maputi and Malang. By a concubine he begot Kuba,
Ndaw, and Taming. Malang begot Sakandar, who was entitled sultan
of Lakungan.
Kdaw married Makadulu and begot Baratamay, and Bani, and Nawung,
a datu of Talayan, and Undung, a datu of Matabangan.
Baratamay married Gimbulanan, the daughter of Datu Maputi, and begot
Lalanu, the Lady of Budtung, who had no children.
By a Sulu lady Baratamay begot Pangyan Ampay; by a lady of Bagu Ingud,
Munawal, Danaw, Gayang, and Tindwan; by a concubine, Ambuludtu, Ugu
Niga, Ani, Gabaw, Ganggay, Manabu, Talibubu, Pundu, Tuntu, Sawal;
by another concubine, Pandaligan, he begot also Magalang, who married
a lady from Lagindingan.
Tambingag, the son of Raja Sirungan, married Sinal and begot Burhan;
by a concubine he begot Kasim and Tambil.
Tungkwang begot Mukarna and Buntang.
Binitis begot Sayim, Dimamamala, Bunsal, Piniyata, Kasangkalan, Miza,
Tapuli, Buludan, Salab; a daughter, Kanggay, and Dimakaling.
Malilimbun begot Manding, the father of Panalan Samu.
Duni, the daughter of Raja Sirungan, married the datu of Bansayan,
whose name was Arugung, and bore Burwa, and a daughter called
Indingu. After the death of the datu of Bansayan she married Alip
and bore Ugu.
Dikaya, the son of Pulwa by a concubine, begot Duka. Duka married
a lady of Malitigaw called Rantyan, whose mother was Agb. To Duka
and Rantyan there were born Bulus, Manalidtu, Pwi, and a daughter,
Miyandung.
Burwa married Nungku, the sister of Nuni, and begot Muluk, Nanak,
Banálak, Mama-sa-Palu, Kalangit, and Wapagáy.
Later Malilimbu married Balbal, the datu of Magulaling, and bore Abad,
Mama-Rapat, and a daughter, Gansawu. Gansawu married Uku, the son of
Punduma from Ampas, and bore Alawa-d-Din, also called Aluyudan and
Jannatu-n-Nayim, and Alim, and Ariraw, and Igang or Buging.
Jannatu-n-Nayim begot Baduyan or Adwi, Inal, Limbayan, Sayimbu,
Bayu, Mbayu. He also begot Tungkaling, Buliyungan, and Anggurung by
a concubine.
Adwi and Dungklang married and there were born to them Dunding, Ratkan,
Pataw, Gayang, Ariraw, and Pimbarat, who was sultan of Balabagan.
Ratkan, the datu of Isikun, begot Dimalawang and Marang. Dimalawang
begot Arani. Arani begot Antaw, Sayu, and Arawa. Arawa married Bayu
and begot Baya.
MANUSCRIPT NO. IV
HISTORY OF THE DUMATUS AND THE CONVERSION OF MINDANAO TO ISLAM
INTRODUCTION
This manuscript is a correct copy of the original which is in the
possession of Datu Kali Adam of Kalangnan, one of the principal
present representatives of the dumatus. The dumatus are a distinct
class of the Moros of Magindanao who trace their origin back to the
former chiefs of the country who reigned before the introduction of
Mohammedanism. The original was written by Datu Kali Adam himself,
copied from a previous manuscript handed down to him from his father,
who was a prominent judge, with some later additions of his own. It
was neither neat nor well kept. It ab
|
at
Pocahontas and Mrs. Tecumseh. They didn't drink. They were women of
no more ability than you have, but they were high-toned, and they got
there, Eli. Now they are known to history along with Cornwallis and
Payne. You can do the same if you choose to. Do not be content to lead a
yellow dog around by a string and get inebriated, but rise up out of the
alkali dust, and resolve that you will shun the demon of drink.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
THE MAN WHO INTERRUPTS.
|I DO not, as a rule, thirst for the blood of my fellow-man. I am
willing that the law should in all ordinary cases take its course, but
when we begin to discuss the man who breaks into a conversation and
ruins it with his own irrelevant ideas, regardless of the feelings
of humanity, I am not a law and order man. The spirit of the "Red
Vigilanter" is roused in my breast and I hunger for the blood of that
man.
Interrupters are of two classes: First, the common plug who thinks
aloud, and whose conversation wanders with his so-called mind. He breaks
into the saddest and sweetest of sentiment, and the choicest and
most tearful of pathos, with the remorseless ignorance that marks a
stump-tail cow in a dahlia bed. He is the bull in my china shop,
the wormwood in my wine, and the kerosene in my maple syrup. I am shy in
conversation, and my unfettered flights of poesy and sentiment are rare,
but this man is always near to mar all with a remark, or a marginal
note, or a story or a bit of politics, ready to bust my beautiful dream
and make me wish that his name might be carved on a marble slab in some
quiet cemetery, far away.
Dear reader, did you ever meet this man--or his wife? Did you ever
strike some beautiful thought and begin to reel it off to your friends
only to be shut off in the middle of a sentence by this choice and
banner idiot of conversation? If so, come and sit by me, and you may
pour your woes into my ear, and I in turn will pour a few gallons into
your listening ear.
I do not care to talk more than my share of the time, but I would be
glad to arrive at a conclusion just to see how it would seem. I would be
so pleased and so joyous to follow up an anecdote till I had reached the
"nub," as it were, to chase argument home to conviction, and to clinch
assertion with authority and evidence.
The second class of interrupters is even worse. It consists of the
man--and, I am pained to state, his wife also--who see the general drift
of your remarks and finish out your story, your gem of thought or
your argument. It is very seldom that they do this as you would do it
yourself, but they are kind and thoughtful and their services are always
at hand. No matter how busy they may be, they will leave their own work
and fly to your aid. With the light of sympathy in their eyes, they
rush into the conversation, and, partaking of your own zeal, they take
the words from your mouth, and cheerfully suck the juice out of your
joke, handing back the rind and hoping for reward. That is where they
get left, so far as I am concerned. I am almost always ready to repay
rudeness with rudeness, and cold preserved gall with such acrid sarcasm
as I may be able to secure at the moment. No one will ever know how I
yearn for the blood of the interrupter. At night I camp on his trail,
and all the day I thirst for his warm life's current. In my dreams I am
cutting his scalp loose with a case-knife, while my fingers are twined
in his clustering hair. I walk over him and promenade across his abdomen
as I slumber. I hear his ribs crack, and I see his tongue hang over his
shoulder as he smiles death's mirthful smile.
I do not interrupt a man no more than I would tell him he lied. I give
him a chance to win applause or decomposed eggs from the audience,
according to what he has to say, and according to the profundity of
his profund. All I want is a similar chance and room according to my
strength. Common decency ought to govern conversation without its being
necessary to hire an umpire armed with a four-foot club, to announce who
is at the bat and who is on deck.
It is only once in a week or two that the angel troubles the waters and
stirs up the depths of my conversational powers, and then the chances
are that some leprous old nasty toad who has been hanging on the brink
of decent society for two weeks, slides in with a low kerplunk, and my
fair blossom of thought that has been trying for weeks to bloom,
withers and goes to seed, while the man with the chilled steel and
copper-riveted brow, and a wad of self-esteem on his intellectual
balcony as big as an inkstand, walks slowly away to think of some other
dazzling gem, and thus be ready to bust my beautiful phantom, and tear
out my high-priced bulbs of fancy the next time I open my mouth.
THE ROCKY MOUKTAIN COW.
|THE attention of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association is
respectfully called to a large bay cow, who is hanging around this place
under an assumed name. She has no visible means of support, and has
been seen trying to catch the combination to the safes of several of our
business men here. She has also stolen into our lot several times and
eaten two or three lengths of stovepipe that we neglected to lock up.
PRESERVING EGGS.
|THE Scientific American gives this as an excellent mode of preserving
eggs: "Take fresh, ones, put a dozen or more into a small willow basket,
and immerse this for five seconds in boiling water, containing about
five pounds of common brown sugar per gallon, then pack, when cool,
small ends down, in an intimate mixture of one part of finely powdered
charcoal and two of dry bran. In this way they will last six months or
more. The scalding water causes the formation of a thin skin of hard
albumen near the inner surface of the shell, and the sugar of syrup
closes all the pores."
The Scientific American neglects, however, to add that when you open
them six months after they were picked and preserved, the safest way is
to open them out in the alley with a revolver, at sixteen paces. When
you have succeeded in opening one, you can jump on a fleet horse and get
out of the country before the nut brown flavor catches up with you.
HUMAN' NATURE ON THE HALF-SHELL.
|I AM up here in River Falls, Wisconsin, and patiently waiting for the
snow-banks to wilt away and gentle spring to come again. Gentle spring,
as I go to press, hath not yet loomed up. Nothing in fact hath loomed
up, as yet, save the great Dakota boom. Everybody, from the servant
girl with the symphony in smut on her face and the boundless waste of
freckles athwart her nose, up to the normal school graduate, with enough
knowledge to start a grist mill for the gods, has "a claim" in the
promised land, the great wild goose orchard and tadpole aquarium of the
new Northwest.
The honest farmer deserts his farm, around which clusters a thousand
memories of the past, and buckling on his web feet, he flees to the frog
ponds of the great northern watershed, to make a "tree claim," and be
happy.
Such is life. We battle on bravely for years, cutting out white-oak
grubs, and squashing army worms on a shingle, in order that we may dwell
beneath our own vine and plum tree, and then we sell and take wings
toward a wild, unknown country, where land is dirt cheap, where the
wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.
That is where we get left, if I may be allowed an Americanism, or
whatever it is. We are never at rest. The more we emigrate the more
worthless, unsatisfied and trifling we become. I have seen the same
family go through Laramie City six times because they knew not of
contentment. The first time they went west in a Pullman car "for their
health." The husband rashly told a sad-eyed man that he lied, and in a
little while the sun was obscured by loose teeth and hair. The ground
was torn up and vegetation was killed where the discussion was held.
Then the family went home to Toledo. They went in a day coach and said a
Pullman car was full of malaria and death. Their relatives made sport
of them and lifted up their yawp and yawped at them insomuch that the
yawpness thereof was as the town caucus for might. Then the tourists on
the following spring packed up two pillows, and a pink comforter, and
a change of raiment, and gat them onto the emigrant train and journeyed
into the land which is called Arizona, where the tarantula climbeth up
on the innerside of the pantaloon and tickleth the limb of the pilgrim
as he journeyeth, and behold he getteth in his work, and the leg of that
man is greater than it was aforetime, even like unto the leg of a piano.
A FRIGID ROUTE.
|THERE'S no doubt but that the Fort Collins route to the North Park, is
a good, practicable route, but the only man who has started out over it
this spring fetched up in the New Jerusalem.
The trouble with that line of travel is, that the temperature is too
short. The summer on the Fort Collins route is noted mainly for its
brevity. It lasts about as long as an ordinary eclipse of the sun.
The man who undertook to go over the road this spring on snow shoes,
with a load consisting of ten cents' worth of fine cut tobacco, has not
been heard from yet at either end of the line, and he is supposed to
have perished, or else he is still in search of an open polar sea.
It is hoped that dog days will bring him to the surface, but if the
winter comes on as early this fall as there are grave reasons to fear,
a man couldn't get over the divide in the short space of time which will
intervene between Decoration day and Christmas.
We hate to discourage people who have an idea of going over the Fort
Collins road to North Park, but would suggest that preparations be made
in advance for about five hundred St. Bernard dogs and a large supply
of arctic whisky, to be placed on file where it can be got at without a
moment's delay.
TOO CONTIGUOUS.
|THERE is a firm on Coyote creek, in New Jersey, that would like to
advertise in _The Boomerang_, and the members of the firm are evidently
good square men, although they are not large. They lack about four feet
in stature of being large enough to come within the range of our vision.
They have got more pure gall to the superficial foot than anybody we
ever heard of. It seems that the house has a lot of vermifuge to feed
plants, and a bedbug tonic that it wants to bring before the public, and
it wants us to devote a quarter of a column every day to the merits of
these bug and worm discouragers, and then take our pay out of tickets in
the drawing of a brindle dog next spring.
We might as well come right out end state that we are not publishing
this paper for our health, nor because we like to loll around in
luxury all day in the voluptuous office of the staff. We have mercenary
motives, and we can't work off wheezy parlor organs and patent corn
plasters and threshing machines very well. We desire the scads. We can
use them in our business, and we are gathering them in just as fast as
we can. At the present time we are pretty well supplied with rectangular
churns and stem-winding mouse traps. We do not need them, It takes too
much time to hypothecate them.
In closing, we will add, that New Jersey people will not be charged much
more for advertising space than Wyoming people. We have made special
rates so that we can give the patrons of the East almost as good terms
as our home advertisers.
THE AMENDE HONORABLE.
|IT is rather interesting to watch the manner by which old customs have
been slightly changed and handed down from age to age. Peculiarities of
old traditions still linger among us, and are forked over to posterity
like a wappy-jawed teapot or a long-time mortgage.. No one can explain
it, but the fact still remains patent that some of the oddities of our
ancestors continue to appear from time to time, clothed in the changing
costumes of the prevailing fashion.
Along with these choice antiquities, and carrying the nut-brown flavor
of the dead and relentless years, comes the amende honorable. From the
original amende in which the offender appeared in public clothed only in
a cotton-flannel shirt, and with a rope about his neck as an evidence a
formal recantation, down to this day when (sometimes) the pale editor,
in a stickful of type, admits that "his informant was in error," the
amende honorable has marched along with the easy tread of time. The
blue-eyed moulder of public opinion, with one suspender hanging down
at his side, and writing on a sheet of news-copy paper, has a more
extensive costume, perhaps, than the old-time offender who bowed in the
dust in the midst of the great populace, and with a halter under his ear
admitted his offense, but he does not feel any more cheerful over it.
I have been called upon several times to make the amende honorable, and
I admit that it is not an occasion of mirth and merriment. People who
come into the editorial office to invest in a retraction are generally
very healthy, and have a stiff, reserved manner that no cheerfulness of
hospitality can soften..
I remember of an accident of this kind which occurred last summer in my
office, while I was writing something scathing. A large map with an air
of profound perspiration about him, and a plaid flannel shirt, stepped
into the middle of the room, and breathed in the air that I was not
using. He said he would give me four minutes in which to retract, and
pulled out a watch by which to ascertain the exact time.
[Illustration: 0067]
I asked him if he would not allow me a moment or two to go over to the
telegraph office and to wire my parents of my awful death. He said I
could walk out of that door when I walked over his dead body. Then I
waited a long time, until he told me my time was up, and asked what
I was waiting for. I told him I was waiting for him to die, so that I
could walk over his dead body. How could I walk over a corpse until life
was extinct?
He stood and looked at me first in astonishment, afterward in pity.
Finally tears welled up in his eyes, and plowed their way down his brown
and grimy face. Then he said that I need not fear him. "You are safe,"
said he. "A youth who is so patient and so cheerful as you are--who
would wait for a healthy man to die so that you could meander over his
pulseless remnants, ought not to die a violent death. A soft-eyed seraph
like you, who is no more conversant with the ways of this world than
that, ought to be put in a glass vial of alcohol and preserved. I came
up here to kill you and throw you into the rain-water barrel, but now
that I know what a patient disposition you have, I shudder to think of
the crime I was about to commit."
JOAQUIN AND JUNIATA.
|JOAQUIN MILLER has just published a new book called "The Shadows of
Shasta." It is based on the Hiawatha, Blue Juniata romance, which the
average poet seems competent to yank loose from the history of the
sore-eyed savage at all times.
Whenever a dead-beat poet strikes bedrock and don't have shekels enough
to buy a bowl of soup, he writes an inspired ode to the unfettered
horse-thief of the west.
It is all right so far as we know. If the poet will wear out the
smoke-tanned child of the forest writing poetry about him, and then if
the child of the forest will rise up in his death struggle and mash the
never-dying soul out of the white-livered poet, everything will be O.K.,
and we will pay the funeral expenses.
If it could be so arranged that the poet and the bright Alfarita
bug-eater and the bilious wild-eyed bard of the backwoods could be shut
up in a corral for six weeks together, with nothing to eat but each
other, it would be a big thing for humanity. We said once that we
wouldn't dictate to this administration, but let it flicker along alone.
We just throw out the above as a suggestion, however, hoping that it
will not be ignored.
SOME VAGUE THOUGHTS.
|SPRING, gentle, touchful, tuneful, breezeful, soothful spring is here.
It has not been here more than twenty minutes, and my arctics stand
where I can reach them in case it should change its mind.
The bobolink sits on the basswood vines, and the thrush in the
gooseberry tree is as melodious as a hired man. The robin is building
his nest--or rather her nest, I should say, perhaps--in the boughs
of the old willow that was last year busted by thunder--I beg your
pardon--by lightning, I should say. The speckled calf dines teat-a-teat
with his mother, and strawberries are like a baldheaded man's brow--they
come high, but we can't get along without them.
I never was more tickled to meet gentle spring than I am now. It
stirs up my drug-soaked remains, and warms the genial current of life
considerably. I frolicked around in the grass this afternoon and filled
my pockets full of 1000-legged worms, and other little mementoes of
the season. The little hare-foot boy now comes forth and walks with
a cautious tread at first, like a blind horse; but toward the golden
autumn the backs of his feet will look like a warty toad, and there will
be big cracks in them, and one toe will be wrapped up in part of a bed
quilt, and he will show it with pride to crowded houses.
Last night I lay awake for several hours thinking about Mr. Sherrod and
how long we had been separated, and I was wondering how many weary days
would have to elapse before we would again look into each other's eyes
and hold each other by the hand, when the loud and violent concussion of
a revolver shot near West Main street and Cascade avenue rent the sable
robe of night. I rose and lit the gas to see if I had been hit. Then
I examined my pockets to see if I had been robbed of my led pencil and
season pass. I found that I had not.
This morning I learned that a young doctor, who had been watching his
own house from a distance during the evening, had discovered that,
taking advantage of the husband's absence, a blonde dry goods clerk had
called to see the crooked but lonely wife. The doctor waited until
the young man had been in the house long enough to get pretty well
acquainted, and then he went in himself to see that the youth was making
himself perfectly comfortable.
There was a wild dash toward the window, made by a blonde man with his
pantaloons in his hand, the spatter of a bullet in the wall over the
young man's head and then all was still for a moment save the low sob
of a woman with her head covered up by the bed clothes. Then the two men
clinched and the doctor injected the barrel of a thirty-two self-cocker
up the bridge of the young man's nose, knocked him under the wash stand,
yanked him out by the hem of his garment and jarred him into the coal
bucket, kicked him up on a corner bracket and then swept the quivering
ruins into the street with a stub-broom. He then lit the chandelier and
told his sobbing wife that she wasn't just the temperament for him and
he was afraid that their paths might diverge. He didn't care much
for company and society while she seemed to yearn for such things
constantly. He came right out and admitted that he was of a nervous
temperament and quick tempered. He loved her, but he had such an
irritable, fiery disposition that he guessed he would have to excuse
her; so he escorted her out to the gate and told her where the best
hotel was, came in, drove out the cat, blew out the light and retired.
Some men seem almost like brutes in their treatment of their wives. They
come home at some eccentric hour of the night, and because they have
to sleep on the lounge, they get mad and try to shoot holes in the
lambrequins, and look at their wives in a harsh, rude tone of voice. I
tell you it's tough.
THE YOUMORIST.
|You are an youmorist, are you not?" queried a long-billed pelican
addressing a thoughtful, mental athlete, on the Milwaukee & St. Paul
road the other day.
"Yes, sir," said the sorrowful man, brushing away a tear. "I am an
youmorist. I am not very much so, but still I can see that I am drifting
that way. And yet I was once joyous and happy as you are. Only a few
years ago, before I was exposed to this malady, I was as blithe as a
speckled yearling, and recked not of aught--nor anything else, either.
Now my whole life is blasted. I do not dare to eat pie or preserves,
and no one tells funny stories when I am near. They regard me as a
professional, and when I get in sight the'scrub nine' close up and wait
for me to entertain the crowd and waddle around the ring."
"What do you mean by that?" murmured the purple-nosed interrogation
point.
"Mean? Why, I mean that whether I'm drawing a salary or not, I'm
expected to be the 'life of the party.' I don't want to be the life of
the party. I want to let some one else be the life of the party. I want
to get up the reputation of being as cross as a bear with a sore head.
I want people to watch their children for fear I'll swallow them. I want
to take my low-cut-evening-dress smile and put it in the bureau drawer,
and tell the world I've got a cancer in my stomach, and the heaves and
hypochondria, and a malignant case of leprosy."
"Do you mean to say that you do not feel facetious all the time, and
that you get weary of being an youmorist?"
"Yes, hungry interlocutor. Yes, low-browed student, yes. I am not always
tickled. Did you ever have a large, angry, and abnormally protuberent
boil somewhere on your person where it seemed to be in the way? Did you
ever have such a boil as a traveling companion, and then get introduced
to people as an youmorist? You have not? Well, then, you do not know all
there is of suffering in this sorrow-streaked world. When wealthy people
die why don't they endow a cast-iron castle with a draw-bridge to it and
call it the youmorists' retreat? Why don't they do some good with their
money instead of fooling it away on those who are comparatively happy?"
"But how did you come to git to be an youmorist?"
"Well, I don't know. I blame my parents some. They might have prevented
it if they'd taken it in time, but they didn't. They let it run on till
it got established, and now its no use to go to the Hot Springs or to
the mountains, or have an operation performed. You let a man get the
name of being an youmorist and he doesn't dare to register at the
hotels, and he has to travel anonymously, and mark his clothes with his
wife's name, or the public will lynch him if he doesn't say something
youmorous.
"Where is your boy to-night?" continued the gloomy humorist. "Do you
know where he is? Is he at home under your watchful eye, or is he away
somewhere nailing the handles on his first little joke? Parent, beware.
Teach your boy to beware. Watch him night and day, or all at once,
when he is beyond your jurisdiction, he will grow pale. He will have a
far-away look in his eye, and the bright, rosy lad will have become the
flatchested, joyless youmorist.
"It's hard to speak unkindly of our parents, but mingled with my own
remorse I shall always murmur to myself, and ask over and over, why did
not my parents rescue me while they could? Why did they allow my
chubby little feet to waddle down to the dangerous ground on which the
sad-eyed youmorist must forever stand?
"Partner, do not forget what I have said to-day. 'Whether your child
be a son or daughter, it matters not. Discourage the first sign of
approaching humor. It is easier to bust the backbone of the first
little, tender jokelet that sticks its head through the virgin soil,
than it is to allow the slimy folds of your son's youmorous lecture to
be wrapped about you, and to bring your gray hairs with sorrow to the
grave."
MY CABINET.
|I HAVE made a small collection of wild, western things during the past
seven years, and have put them together, hoping some day, when I get
feeble, to travel with the aggregation and erect a large monument of
kopecks for my executors, administrators and assigns forever.
Beginning with the skull of old Hi-lo-Jack-and-the-game, a Sioux
brave, the collection takes in my wonderful bird, known as the
Walk-up-the-creek, and another _vara avis_, with carnivorous bill and
web feet, which has astonished everyone except the taxidermist and
myself. An old grizzly bear hunter--who has plowed corn all his life and
don't know a coyote from a Maverick steer--looked at it last fall and
pronounced it a "kingfisher," said he had killed one like it a year ago.
Then I knew that he was a pilgrim and a stranger, and that he had bought
his buckskin coat and bead-trimmed moccasins at Niagara Falls, for the
bird is constructed of an eagle's head, a canvas back duck's bust and
feet, with the balance sage hen and baled hay.
Last fall I desired to add to my rare collection a large hornet's nest.
I had an embalmed tarantula and her porcelain-lined nest, and I desired
to add to these the gray and airy home of the hornet. I procured one of
the large size after cold weather and hung it in my cabinet by a string.
I forgot about it until this spring. When warm weather came, something
reminded me of it. I think it was a hornet. He jogged my memory in some
way and called my attention to it. Memory is not located where I
thought it was. It seemed as though whenever he touched me he awakened a
memory--a warm memory with a red place all around it.
Then some more hornets came and began to rake up old personalities.
I remember that one of them lit on my upper lip. He thought it was a
rosebud. When he went away it looked like a gladiola bulb. I wrapped a
wet sheet around it to take out the warmth and reduce the swelling so
that I could go through the folding doors and tell my wife about it.
Hornets lit ah over me and walked around on my person. I did not dare
to scrape them off because they are so sensitive. You have to be very
guarded in your conduct toward a hornet.
I remember once while I was watching the busy little hornet gathering
honey and June bugs from the bosom of a rose, years ago, I stirred him
up with a club, more as a practical joke than anything else, and he came
and lit in my sunny hair--that was when I wore my own hair and he walked
around through my gleaming tresses quite awhile, making tracks as large
as a watermelon all over my head. If he hadn't run out of tracks my head
would have looked like a load of summer squashes. I remember I had to
thump my head against the smoke-house in order to smash him, and I had
to comb him out with a fine comb, and wear a waste-paper basket two
weeks for a hat.
Much has been said of the hornet, but he has an odd, quaint way after
all, that is forever new.
HEALTH FOOD.
|WHILE trying to reconstruct a telescoped spine and put some new copper
rivets in the lumbar vertebrae, this spring, I have had occasion to
thoroughly investigate the subject of so-called health food, such as
gruels, beef tea inundations, toasts, oat meal mush, bran mash, soups,
condition powders, graham gem, ground feed, pepsin, laudable mush, and
other hen feed usually poked into the invalid who is too weak to defend
himself.
Of course it stands to reason that the reluctant and fluttering spirit
may not be won back to earth, and joy once more beam in the leaden eye
unless due care be taken relative to the food by means of which nature
may be made to assert herself.
I do not care to say to the world through the columns of the Free Press,
that we may woo from eternity the trembling life with pie. Welsh rabbit
and other wild game will not do at first. But I think I am speaking the
sentiments of a large and emaciated constituency when I say, that there
is getting to be a strong feeling against oat meal submerged in milk and
in favor of strawberry short cake.
I almost ate myself into an early grave in April by flying into the face
of Providence and demoralizing old Gastric with oat meal. I ate oat meal
two weeks, and at the end of that time my friends were telegraphed for,
but before it was too late, I threw off the shackles that bound me. With
a desperation born of a terrible apprehension, I rose and shook off
the fatal oat meal habit and began to eat beefsteak. At first life hung
trembling in the balance and there was no change in the quotations of
beef, but later on there was a slight, delicate bloom on the wan cheek,
and range cattle that had barely escaped a long, severe winter on the
plains, began to apprehend a new danger and to seek the secluded canyons
of the inaccessible mountains.
I often thought while I was eating health food and waiting for death,
how the doctor and other invited guests at the post mortem would start
back in amazement to find the remnants of an eminent man filled with
bran!
Through all the painful hours of the long, long night and the eventless
day, while the mad throng rushed onward like a great river toward
eternity's ocean, this thought was uppermost in my mind. I tried to get
the physician to promise that he would not expose me, and show the
world what a hollow mockery I had been, and how I had deceived my best
friends. I told him the whole truth, and asked him to spare my family
the humiliation of knowing that though I might have led a blameless
life, my sunny exterior was only a thin covering for bran and shorts and
middlings, cracked wheat and pearl barley.
I dreamed last night of being in a large city where the streets were
paved with dry toast, and the buildings were roofed with toast, and the
soil was bran and oat meal, and the water was beef tea and gruel. All at
once it came over me that I had solved the great mystery of death, and
had been consigned to a place of eternal punishment. The thought was
horrible! A million eternities in a city built of dry toast and oat
meal! A home for never-ending cycles of ages, where the principal hotel
and the post-office building and the opera house were all built of
toast, and the fire department squirted gruel at the devouring element
forever!
It was only a dream, but it has made me more thoughtful, and people
notice that I am not so giddy as I was.
A NEW POET.
|A NEW and dazzling literary star has risen above the horizon, and is
just about to shoot athwart the starry vault of poesy. How wisely are
all things ordered, and how promptly does the new star begin to beam,
upon the decline of the old.
Hardly had the sweet singer of Michigan commenced to wane and to
flicker, when, rising above the western hills, the glad light of the
rising star is seen, and adown the canyons and gulches of the Rocky
mountains comes the melodious cadences of the poet of the Greeley Eye.
Couched in the rough terms of the west; robed in the untutored language
of the Michael Angelo slang of the miner and the cowboy, the poet at
first twitters a little on a bough far up the canyon, gradually waking
the echoes, until the song is taken up and handed back by every rock and
crag along the rugged ramparts of the mighty mountain barrier.
Listen to the opening stanza of "The Dying Cowboy and the Preacher:"
``So, old gospel shark, they tell me I must die;
``That the wheels of life's wagon have rolled into their last rut,
``Well, I will "pass in my checks" without a whimper or a cry,
``And die as I have lived--"a hard nut."=
This is no time-worn simile, no hackneyed illustration or bald-headed
decrepit comparison, but a new, fresh illustration that appeals to the
western character, and lifts the very soul out of the kinks, as it were.
"Wheels of life's wagon have rolled into their last rut."
Ah! how true to nature and yet how grand. How broad and sweeping. How
melodious and yet how real. Hone but the true poet would have thought to
compare the close of life to the sudden and unfortunate chuck of the off
hind wheel of a lumber wagon into a rut.
In fancy we can see it all. We hear the low, sad kerplunk of the wheel,
the loud burst of earnest, logical profanity, and then all is still.
How and then the swish of a mule's tail through the air, or the sigh of
the rawhide as it shimmers and hurtles through the silent air, and then
a calm falls upon the scene. Anon, the driver bangs the mule that is
ostensibly pulling his daylights out, but who is, in fact, humping up
like an angle worm, without pulling a pound.
Then the poet comes to the close of the cowboy's career in this style:
```"Do I repent?" No--of nothing present or past;
```So skip, old preach, on gospel pap I won't be fed;
```My breath comes hard; I--am going--but--I--am game to
`````the--last.
```And reckless of the future, as the present, the cowboy was
`````dead.=
If we could write poetry like that, do you think we would plod along
the dreary pathway of the journalist? Do you suppose that if we had the
heaven-born gift of song to such a degree that we could take hold of the
hearts of millions and warble two or three little ditties like that,
or write an effigy before breakfast, or construct an ionic, anapestic
twitter like the foregoing, that we would carry in our own coal, and
trim our own lamps, and wear a shirt two weeks at a time?
No, sir, he would hie us away to Europe or Salt Lake, and let our hair
grow long, and we would write some obituary truck that would make people
disgusted with life, and they would sigh for death that they might leave
their insurance and their obituaries to their survivors.
A WORD IN SELF-DEFENSE.
|IT might be well in closing to say a word in defense of myself.
The varied and uniformly erroneous notions expressed recently as to my
|
. Both groups influenced the
ancient Japanese culture. The rectangular-axe culture of north-west
China spread widely, and moved southward, where the Austronesian peoples
(from whom the Malays are descended) were its principal constituents,
spreading that culture also to Japan.
Thus we see here, in this period around 4000 B.C., an extensive mutual
penetration of the various cultures all over the Far East, including
Japan, which in the palaeolithic age was apparently without or almost
without settlers.
5 _The eight principal prehistoric cultures_
In the period roughly around 2500 B.C. the general historical view
becomes much clearer. Thanks to a special method of working, making use
of the ethnological sources available from later times together with the
archaeological sources, much new knowledge has been gained in recent
years. At this time there is still no trace of a Chinese realm; we find
instead on Chinese soil a considerable number of separate local
cultures, each developing on its own lines. The chief of these cultures,
acquaintance with which is essential to a knowledge of the whole later
development of the Far East, are as follows:
(a) _The north-east culture_, centred in the present provinces of Hopei
(in which Peking lies), Shantung, and southern Manchuria. The people of
this culture were ancestors of the Tunguses, probably mixed with an
element that is contained in the present-day Paleo-Siberian tribes.
These men were mainly hunters, but probably soon developed a little
primitive agriculture and made coarse, thick pottery with certain basic
forms which were long preserved in subsequent Chinese pottery (for
instance, a type of the so-called tripods). Later, pig-breeding became
typical of this culture.
(b) _The northern culture_ existed to the west of that culture, in the
region of the present Chinese province of Shansi and in the province of
Jehol in Inner Mongolia. These people had been hunters, but then became
pastoral nomads, depending mainly on cattle. The people of this culture
were the tribes later known as Mongols, the so-called proto-Mongols.
Anthropologically they belonged, like the Tunguses, to the Mongol race.
(c) The people of the culture farther west, the _north-west culture_,
were not Mongols. They, too, were originally hunters, and later became a
pastoral people, with a not inconsiderable agriculture (especially
growing wheat and millet). The typical animal of this group soon became
the horse. The horse seems to be the last of the great animals to be
domesticated, and the date of its first occurrence in domesticated form
in the Far East is not yet determined, but we can assume that by 2500
B.C. this group was already in the possession of horses. The horse has
always been a "luxury", a valuable animal which needed special care. For
their economic needs, these tribes depended on other animals, probably
sheep, goats, and cattle. The centre of this culture, so far as can be
ascertained from Chinese sources, were the present provinces of Shensi
and Kansu, but mainly only the plains. The people of this culture were
most probably ancestors of the later Turkish peoples. It is not
suggested, of course, that the original home of the Turks lay in the
region of the Chinese provinces of Shensi and Kansu; one gains the
impression, however, that this was a border region of the Turkish
expansion; the Chinese documents concerning that period do not suffice
to establish the centre of the Turkish territory.
(d) In the _west_, in the present provinces of Szechwan and in all the
mountain regions of the provinces of Kansu and Shensi, lived the
ancestors of the Tibetan peoples as another separate culture. They were
shepherds, generally wandering with their flocks of sheep and goats on
the mountain heights.
(e) In the _south_ we meet with four further cultures. One is very
primitive, the Liao culture, the peoples of which are the Austroasiatics
already mentioned. These are peoples who never developed beyond the
stage of primitive hunters, some of whom were not even acquainted with
the bow and arrow. Farther east is the Yao culture, an early
Austronesian culture, the people of which also lived in the mountains,
some as collectors and hunters, some going over to a simple type of
agriculture (denshiring). They mingled later with the last great culture
of the south, the Tai culture, distinguished by agriculture. The people
lived in the valleys and mainly cultivated rice.
The origin of rice is not yet known; according to some scholars, rice
was first cultivated in the area of present Burma and was perhaps at
first a perennial plant. Apart from the typical rice which needs much
water, there were also some strains of dry rice which, however, did not
gain much importance. The centre of this Tai culture may have been in
the present provinces of Kuangtung and Kuanghsi. Today, their
descendants form the principal components of the Tai in Thailand, the
Shan in Burma and the Lao in Laos. Their immigration into the areas of
the Shan States of Burma and into Thailand took place only in quite
recent historical periods, probably not much earlier than A.D. 1000.
Finally there arose from the mixture of the Yao with the Tai culture, at
a rather later time, the Yüeh culture, another early Austronesian
culture, which then spread over wide regions of Indonesia, and of which
the axe of rectangular section, mentioned above, became typical.
Thus, to sum up, we may say that, quite roughly, in the middle of the
third millennium we meet in the _north_ and west of present-day China
with a number of herdsmen cultures. In the _south_ there were a number
of agrarian cultures, of which the Tai was the most powerful, becoming
of most importance to the later China. We must assume that these
cultures were as yet undifferentiated in their social composition, that
is to say that as yet there was no distinct social stratification, but
at most beginnings of class-formation, especially among the nomad
herdsmen.
6 _The Yang-shao culture_
The various cultures here described gradually penetrated one another,
especially at points where they met. Such a process does not yield a
simple total of the cultural elements involved; any new combination
produces entirely different conditions with corresponding new results
which, in turn, represent the characteristics of the culture that
supervenes. We can no longer follow this process of penetration in
detail; it need not by any means have been always warlike. Conquest of
one group by another was only one way of mutual cultural penetration. In
other cases, a group which occupied the higher altitudes and practised
hunting or slash-and-burn agriculture came into closer contacts with
another group in the valleys which practised some form of higher
agriculture; frequently, such contacts resulted in particular forms of
division of labour in a unified and often stratified new form of
society. Recent and present developments in South-East Asia present a
number of examples for such changes. Increase of population is certainly
one of the most important elements which lead to these developments. The
result, as a rule, was a stratified society being made up of at least
one privileged and one ruled stratum. Thus there came into existence
around 2000 B.C. some new cultures, which are well known
archaeologically. The most important of these are the Yang-shao culture
in the west and the Lung-shan culture in the east. Our knowledge of both
these cultures is of quite recent date and there are many enigmas still
to be cleared up.
[Illustration: Map 1. Regions of the principal local cultures in
prehistoric times. _Local cultures of minor importance have not been
shown._]
The _Yang-shao culture_ takes its name from a prehistoric settlement in
the west of the present province of Honan, where Swedish investigators
discovered it. Typical of this culture is its wonderfully fine pottery,
apparently used as gifts to the dead. It is painted in three colours,
white, red, and black. The patterns are all stylized, designs copied
from nature being rare. We are now able to divide this painted pottery
into several sub-types of specific distribution, and we know that this
style existed from _c_. 2200 B.C. on. In general, it tends to disappear
as does painted pottery in other parts of the world with the beginning
of urban civilization and the invention of writing. The typical
Yang-shao culture seems to have come to an end around 1600 or 1500 B.C.
It continued in some more remote areas, especially of Kansu, perhaps to
about 700 B.C. Remnants of this painted pottery have been found over a
wide area from Southern Manchuria, Hopei, Shansi, Honan, Shensi to
Kansu; some pieces have also been discovered in Sinkiang. Thus far, it
seems that it occurred mainly in the mountainous parts of North and
North-West China. The people of this culture lived in villages near to
the rivers and creeks. They had various forms of houses, including
underground dwellings and animal enclosures. They practised some
agriculture; some authors believe that rice was already known to them.
They also had domesticated animals. Their implements were of stone with
rare specimens of bone. The axes were of the rectangular type. Metal was
as yet unknown, but seems to have been introduced towards the end of the
period. They buried their dead on the higher elevations, and here the
painted pottery was found. For their daily life, they used predominantly
a coarse grey pottery.
After the discovery of this culture, its pottery was compared with the
painted pottery of the West, and a number of resemblances were found,
especially with the pottery of the Lower Danube basin and that of Anau,
in Turkestan. Some authors claim that such resemblances are fortuitous
and believe that the older layers of this culture are to be found in the
eastern part of its distribution and only the later layers in the west.
It is, they say, these later stages which show the strongest
resemblances with the West. Other authors believe that the painted
pottery came from the West where it occurs definitely earlier than in
the Far East; some investigators went so far as to regard the
Indo-Europeans as the parents of that civilization. As we find people
who spoke an Indo-European language in the Far East in a later period,
they tend to connect the spread of painted pottery with the spread of
Indo-European-speaking groups. As most findings of painted pottery in
the Far East do not stem from scientific excavations it is difficult to
make any decision at this moment. We will have to wait for more and
modern excavations.
From our knowledge of primeval settlement in West and North-West China
we know, however, that Tibetan groups, probably mixed with Turkish
elements, must have been the main inhabitants of the whole region in
which this painted pottery existed. Whatever the origin of the painted
pottery may be, it seems that people of these two groups were the main
users of it. Most of the shapes of their pottery are not found in later
Chinese pottery.
7 _The Lung-shan culture_
While the Yang-shao culture flourished in the mountain regions of
northern and western China around 2000 B.C., there came into existence
in the plains of eastern China another culture, which is called the
Lung-shan culture, from the scene of the principal discoveries.
Lung-shan is in the province of Shantung, near Chinan-fu. This culture,
discovered only about twenty-five years ago, is distinguished by a black
pottery of exceptionally fine quality and by a similar absence of metal.
The pottery has a polished appearance on the exterior; it is never
painted, and mostly without decoration; at most it may have incised
geometrical patterns. The forms of the vessels are the same as have
remained typical of Chinese pottery, and of Far Eastern pottery in
general. To that extent the Lung-shan culture may be described as one of
the direct predecessors of the later Chinese civilization.
As in the West, we find in Lung-shan much grey pottery out of which
vessels for everyday use were produced. This simple corded or matted
ware seems to be in connection with Tunguse people who lived in the
north-east. The people of the Lung-shan culture lived on mounds produced
by repeated building on the ruins of earlier settlements, as did the
inhabitants of the "Tells" in the Near East. They were therefore a
long-settled population of agriculturists. Their houses were of mud, and
their villages were surrounded with mud walls. There are signs that
their society was stratified. So far as is known at present, this
culture was spread over the present provinces of Shantung, Kiangsu,
Chekiang, and Anhui, and some specimens of its pottery went as far as
Honan and Shansi, into the region of the painted pottery. This culture
lasted in the east until about 1600 B.C., with clear evidence of rather
longer duration only in the south. As black pottery of a similar
character occurs also in the Near East, some authors believe that it has
been introduced into the Far East by another migration (Pontic
migration) following that migration which supposedly brought the painted
pottery. This theory has not been generally accepted because of the fact
that typical black pottery is limited to the plains of East China; if it
had been brought in from the West, we should expect to find it in
considerable amounts also in West China. Ordinary black pottery can be
simply the result of a special temperature in the pottery kiln; such
pottery can be found almost everywhere. The typical thin, fine black
pottery of Lung-shan, however, is in the Far East an eastern element,
and migrants would have had to pass through the area of the painted
pottery people without leaving many traces and without pushing their
predecessors to the East. On the basis of our present knowledge we
assume that the peoples of the Lung-shan culture were probably of Tai
and Yao stocks together with some Tunguses.
Recently, a culture of mound-dwellers in Eastern China has been
discovered, and a southern Chinese culture of people with impressed or
stamped pottery. This latter seems to be connected with the Yüeh tribes.
As yet, no further details are known.
8 _The first petty States in Shansi_
At the time in which, according to archaeological research, the painted
pottery flourished in West China, Chinese historical tradition has it
that the semi-historical rulers, Yao and Shun, and the first official
dynasty, the Hsia dynasty ruled over parts of China with a centre in
southern Shansi. While we dismiss as political myths the Confucianist
stories representing Yao and Shun as models of virtuous rulers, it may
be that a small state existed in south-western Shansi under a chieftain
Yao, and farther to the east another small state under a chieftain Shun,
and that these states warred against each other until Yao's state was
destroyed. These first small states may have existed around 2000 B.C.
On the cultural scene we first find an important element of progress:
bronze, in traces in the middle layers of the Yang-shao culture, about
1800 B.C.; that element had become very widespread by 1400 B.C. The
forms of the oldest weapons and their ornamentation show similarities
with weapons from Siberia; and both mythology and other indications
suggest that the bronze came into China from the north and was not
produced in China proper. Thus, from the present state of our knowledge,
it seems most correct to say that the bronze was brought to the Far East
through the agency of peoples living north of China, such as the Turkish
tribes who in historical times were China's northern neighbours (or
perhaps only individual families or clans, the so-called smith families
with whom we meet later in Turkish tradition), reaching the Chinese
either through these people themselves or through the further agency of
Mongols. At first the forms of the weapons were left unaltered. The
bronze vessels, however, which made their appearance about 1450 B.C. are
entirely different from anything produced in other parts of Asia; their
ornamentation shows, on the one hand, elements of the so-called "animal
style" which is typical of the steppe people of the Ordos area and of
Central Asia. But most of the other elements, especially the "filling"
between stylized designs, is recognizably southern (probably of the Tai
culture), no doubt first applied to wooden vessels and vessels made from
gourds, and then transferred to bronze. This implies that the art of
casting bronze very soon spread from North China, where it was first
practised by Turkish peoples, to the east and south, which quickly
developed bronze industries of their own. There are few deposits of
copper and tin in North China, while in South China both metals are
plentiful and easily extracted, so that a trade in bronze from south to
north soon set in.
The origin of the Hsia state may have been a consequence of the progress
due to bronze. The Chinese tradition speaks of the Hsia _dynasty_, but
can say scarcely anything about it. The excavations, too, yield no
clear conclusions, so that we can only say that it flourished at the
time and in the area in which the painted pottery occurred, with a
centre in south-west Shansi. We date this dynasty now somewhere between
2000 and 1600 B.C. and believe that it was an agrarian culture with
bronze weapons and pottery vessels but without the knowledge of the art
of writing.
Chapter Two
THE SHANG DYNASTY (_c._ 1600-1028 B.C.)
1 _Period, origin, material culture_
About 1600 B.C. we come at last into the realm of history. Of the Shang
dynasty, which now followed, we have knowledge both from later texts and
from excavations and the documents they have brought to light. The Shang
civilization, an evident off-shoot of the Lung-shan culture (Tai, Yao,
and Tunguses), but also with elements of the Hsia culture (with Tibetan
and Mongol and/or Turkish elements), was beyond doubt a high
civilization. Of the origin of the Shang _State_ we have no details, nor
do we know how the Hsia culture passed into the Shang culture.
The central territory of the Shang realm lay in north-western Honan,
alongside the Shansi mountains and extending into the plains. It was a
peasant civilization with towns. One of these towns has been excavated.
It adjoined the site of the present town of Anyang, in the province of
Honan. The town, the Shang capital from _c._ 1300 to 1028 B.C., was
probably surrounded by a mud wall, as were the settlements of the
Lung-shan people. In the centre was what evidently was the ruler's
palace. Round this were houses probably inhabited by artisans; for the
artisans formed a sort of intermediate class, as dependents of the
ruling class. From inscriptions we know that the Shang had, in addition
to their capital, at least two other large cities and many smaller
town-like settlements and villages. The rectangular houses were built in
a style still found in Chinese houses, except that their front did not
always face south as is now the general rule. The Shang buried their
kings in large, subterranean, cross-shaped tombs outside the city, and
many implements, animals and human sacrifices were buried together with
them. The custom of large burial mounds, which later became typical of
the Chou dynasty, did not yet exist.
The Shang had sculptures in stone, an art which later more or less
completely disappeared and which was resuscitated only in post-Christian
times under the influence of Indian Buddhism. Yet, Shang culture cannot
well be called a "megalithic" culture. Bronze implements and especially
bronze vessels were cast in the town. We even know the trade marks of
some famous bronze founders. The bronze weapons are still similar to
those from Siberia, and are often ornamented in the so-called "animal
style", which was used among all the nomad peoples between the Ordos
region and Siberia until the beginning of the Christian era. On the
other hand, the famous bronze vessels are more of southern type, and
reveal an advanced technique that has scarcely been excelled since.
There can be no doubt that the bronze vessels were used for religious
service and not for everyday life. For everyday use there were
earthenware vessels. Even in the middle of the first millennium B.C.,
bronze was exceedingly dear, as we know from the records of prices.
China has always suffered from scarcity of metal. For that reason metal
was accumulated as capital, entailing a further rise in prices; when
prices had reached a sufficient height, the stocks were thrown on the
market and prices fell again. Later, when there was a metal coinage,
this cycle of inflation and deflation became still clearer. The metal
coinage was of its full nominal value, so that it was possible to coin
money by melting down bronze implements. As the money in circulation was
increased in this way, the value of the currency fell. Then it paid to
turn coin into metal implements. This once more reduced the money in
circulation and increased the value of the remaining coinage. Thus
through the whole course of Chinese history the scarcity of metal and
insufficiency of production of metal continually produced extensive
fluctuations of the stocks and the value of metal, amounting virtually
to an economic law in China. Consequently metal implements were never
universally in use, and vessels were always of earthenware, with the
further result of the early invention of porcelain. Porcelain vessels
have many of the qualities of metal ones, but are cheaper.
The earthenware vessels used in this period are in many cases already
very near to porcelain: there was a pottery of a brilliant white,
lacking only the glaze which would have made it into porcelain. Patterns
were stamped on the surface, often resembling the patterns on bronze
articles. This ware was used only for formal, ceremonial purposes. For
daily use there was also a perfectly simple grey pottery.
Silk was already in use at this time. The invention of sericulture must
therefore have dated from very ancient times in China. It undoubtedly
originated in the south of China, and at first not only the threads
spun by the silkworm but those made by other caterpillars were also
used. The remains of silk fabrics that have been found show already an
advanced weaving technique. In addition to silk, various plant fibres,
such as hemp, were in use. Woollen fabrics do not seem to have been yet
used.
The Shang were agriculturists, but their implements were still rather
primitive. There was no real plough yet; hoes and hoe-like implements
were used, and the grain, mainly different kinds of millet and some
wheat, was harvested with sickles. The materials, from which these
implements were made, were mainly wood and stone; bronze was still too
expensive to be utilized by the ordinary farmer. As a great number of
vessels for wine in many different forms have been excavated, we can
assume that wine, made from special kinds of millet, was a popular
drink.
The Shang state had its centre in northern Honan, north of the Yellow
river. At various times, different towns were made into the capital
city; Yin-ch'ü, their last capital and the only one which has been
excavated, was their sixth capital. We do not know why the capitals were
removed to new locations; it is possible that floods were one of the
main reasons. The area under more or less organized Shang control
comprised towards the end of the dynasty the present provinces of Honan,
western Shantung, southern Hopei, central and south Shansi, east Shensi,
parts of Kiangsu and Anhui. We can only roughly estimate the size of the
population of the Shang state. Late texts say that at the time of the
annihilation of the dynasty, some 3.1 million free men and 1.1 million
serfs were captured by the conquerors; this would indicate a population
of at least some 4-5 millions. This seems a possible number, if we
consider that an inscription of the tenth century B.C. which reports
about an ordinary war against a small and unimportant western neighbour,
speaks of 13,081 free men and 4,812 serfs taken as prisoners.
Inscriptions mention many neighbours of the Shang with whom they were in
more or less continuous state of war. Many of these neighbours can now
be identified. We know that Shansi at that time was inhabited by Ch'iang
tribes, belonging to the Tibetan culture, as well as by Ti tribes,
belonging to the northern culture, and by Hsien-yün and other tribes,
belonging to the north-western culture; the centre of the Ch'iang tribes
was more in the south-west of Shansi and in Shensi. Some of these tribes
definitely once formed a part of the earlier Hsia state. The
identification of the eastern neighbours of the Shang presents more
difficulties. We might regard them as representatives of the Tai and Yao
cultures.
2 _Writing and Religion_
Not only the material but also the intellectual level attained in the
Shang period was very high. We meet for the first time with
writing--much later than in the Middle East and in India. Chinese
scholars have succeeded in deciphering some of the documents discovered,
so that we are able to learn a great deal from them. The writing is a
rudimentary form of the present-day Chinese script, and like it a
pictorial writing, but also makes use, as today, of many phonetic signs.
There were, however, a good many characters that no longer exist, and
many now used are absent. There were already more than 3,000 characters
in use of which some 1,000 can now be read. (Today newspapers use some
3,000 characters; scholars have command of up to 8,000; the whole of
Chinese literature, ancient and modern, comprises some 50,000
characters.) With these 3,000 characters the Chinese of the Shang period
were able to express themselves well.
The still existing fragments of writing of this period are found almost
exclusively on tortoiseshells or on other bony surfaces, and they
represent oracles. As early as in the Lung-shan culture there was
divination by means of "oracle bones", at first without written
characters. In the earliest period any bones of animals (especially
shoulder-bones) were used; later only tortoiseshell. For the purpose of
the oracle a depression was burnt in the shell so that cracks were
formed on the other side, and the future was foretold from their
direction. Subsequently particular questions were scratched on the
shells, and the answers to them; these are the documents that have come
down to us. In Anyang tens of thousands of these oracle bones with
inscriptions have been found. The custom of asking the oracle and of
writing the answers on the bones spread over the borders of the Shang
state and continued in some areas after the end of the dynasty.
The bronze vessels of later times often bear long inscriptions, but
those of the Shang period have only very brief texts. On the other hand,
they are ornamented with pictures, as yet largely unintelligible, of
countless deities, especially in the shape of animals or birds--pictures
that demand interpretation. The principal form on these bronzes is that
of the so-called T'ao-t'ieh, a hybrid with the head of a water-buffalo
and tiger's teeth.
The Shang period had a religion with many nature deities, especially
deities of fertility. There was no systematized pantheon, different
deities being revered in each locality, often under the most varied
names. These various deities were, however, similar in character, and
later it occurred often that many of them were combined by the priests
into a single god. The composite deities thus formed were officially
worshipped. Their primeval forms lived on, however, especially in the
villages, many centuries longer than the Shang dynasty. The sacrifices
associated with them became popular festivals, and so these gods or
their successors were saved from oblivion; some of them have lived on in
popular religion to the present day. The supreme god of the official
worship was called Shang Ti; he was a god of vegetation who guided all
growth and birth and was later conceived as a forefather of the races of
mankind. The earth was represented as a mother goddess, who bore the
plants and animals procreated by Shang Ti. In some parts of the Shang
realm the two were conceived as a married couple who later were parted
by one of their children. The husband went to heaven, and the rain is
the male seed that creates life on earth. In other regions it was
supposed that in the beginning of the world there was a world-egg, out
of which a primeval god came, whose body was represented by the earth:
his hair formed the plants, and his limbs the mountains and valleys.
Every considerable mountain was also itself a god and, similarly, the
river god, the thunder god, cloud, lightning, and wind gods, and many
others were worshipped.
In order to promote the fertility of the earth, it was believed that
sacrifices must be offered to the gods. Consequently, in the Shang realm
and the regions surrounding it there were many sorts of human
sacrifices; often the victims were prisoners of war. One gains the
impression that many wars were conducted not as wars of conquest but
only for the purpose of capturing prisoners, although the area under
Shang control gradually increased towards the west and the south-east, a
fact demonstrating the interest in conquest. In some regions men lurked
in the spring for people from other villages; they slew them, sacrificed
them to the earth, and distributed portions of the flesh of the
sacrifice to the various owners of fields, who buried them. At a later
time all human sacrifices were prohibited, but we have reports down to
the eleventh century A.D., and even later, that such sacrifices were
offered secretly in certain regions of central China. In other regions a
great boat festival was held in the spring, to which many crews came
crowded in long narrow boats. At least one of the boats had to capsize;
the people who were thus drowned were a sacrifice to the deities of
fertility. This festival has maintained its fundamental character to
this day, in spite of various changes. The same is true of other
festivals, customs, and conceptions, vestiges of which are contained at
least in folklore.
In addition to the nature deities which were implored to give fertility,
to send rain, or to prevent floods and storms, the Shang also
worshipped deceased rulers and even dead ministers as a kind of
intermediaries between man and the highest deity, Shang Ti. This
practice may be regarded as the forerunner of "ancestral worship" which
became so typical of later China.
3 _Transition to feudalism_
At the head of the Shang state was a king, posthumously called a "Ti",
the same word as in the name of the supreme god. We have found on bones
the names of all the rulers of this dynasty and even some of their
pre-dynastic ancestors. These names can be brought into agreement with
lists of rulers found in the ancient Chinese literature. The ruler seems
to have been a high priest, too; and around him were many other priests.
We know some of them now so well from the inscriptions that their
biographies could be written. The king seems to have had some kind of
bureaucracy. There were "ch'en", officials who served the ruler
personally, as well as scribes and military officials. The basic army
organization was in units of one hundred men which were combined as
"right", "left" and "central" units into an army of 300 men. But it
seems that the central power did not extend very far. In the more
distant parts of the realm were more or less independent lords, who
recognized the ruler only as their supreme lord and religious leader. We
may describe this as an early, loose form of the feudal system, although
the main element of real feudalism was still absent. The main
obligations of these lords were to send tributes of grain, to
participate with their soldiers in the wars, to send tortoise shells to
the capital to be used there for oracles, and to send occasionally
cattle and horses. There were some thirty such dependent states.
Although we do not know much about the general population, we know that
the rulers had a patrilinear system of inheritance. After the death of
the ruler his brothers followed him on the throne, the older brothers
first. After the death of all brothers, the sons of older or younger
brothers became rulers. No preference was shown to the son of the oldest
brother, and no preference between sons of main or of secondary wives is
recognizable. Thus, the Shang patrilinear system was much less extreme
than the later system. Moreover, the deceased wives of the rulers played
a great role in the cult, another element which later disappeared. From
these facts and from the general structure of Shang religion it has been
concluded that there was a strong matrilinear strain in Shang culture.
Although this cannot be proved, it seems quite plausible because we know
of matrilinear societies in the South of China at later times.
About the middle of the Shang period there occurred interesting changes,
probably under the influence of nomad peoples from the north-west.
In religion there appears some evidence of star-worship. The deities
seem to have been conceived as a kind of celestrial court of Shang Ti,
as his "officials". In the field of material culture, horse-breeding
becomes more and more evident. Some authors believe that the art of
riding was already known in late Shang times, although it was certainly
not yet so highly developed that cavalry units could be used in war.
With horse-breeding the two-wheeled light war chariot makes its
appearance. The wheel was already known in earlier times in the form of
the potter's wheel. Recent excavations have brought to light burials in
which up to eighteen chariots with two or four horses were found
together with the owners of the chariots. The cart is not a Chinese
invention but came from the north, possibly from Turkish peoples. It has
been contended that it was connected with the war chariot of the Near
East: shortly before the Shang period there had been vast upheavals in
western Asia, mainly in connection with the expansion of peoples who
spoke Indo-European languages (Hittites, etc.) and who became successful
through the use of quick, light, two-wheeled war-chariots. It is
possible, but cannot be proved, that the war-chariot spread through
Central Asia in connection with the spread of such
Indo-European-speaking groups or by the intermediary of Turkish tribes.
We have some reasons to believe that the first Indo-European-speaking
groups arrived in the Far East in the middle of the second millenium
B.C. Some authors even connect the Hsia with these groups. In any case,
the maximal distribution of these people seems to have been to the
western borders of the Shang state. As in Western Asia, a Shang-time
chariot was manned by three men: the warrior who was a nobleman, his
driver, and his servant who handed him arrows or other weapons when
needed. There developed a quite close relationship between the nobleman
and his chariot-driver. The chariot was a valuable object, manufactured
by specialists; horses were always expensive and rare in China, and in
many periods of Chinese history horses were directly imported from
nomadic tribes in the North or West. Thus, the possessors of vehicles
formed a privileged class in the Shang realm; they became a sort of
nobility, and the social organization began to move in the direction of
feudalism. One of the main sports of the noblemen in this period, in
addition to warfare, was hunting. The Shang had their special hunting
grounds south of the mountains which surround Shansi province, along the
slopes of the T'ai-hang mountain range, and south to the shores of the
Yellow river. Here, there were still forests and swamps in Shang time,
and boars, deer, buffaloes and other animals, as well as occasional
rhinoceros and elephants, were hunted. None of these wild animals was
used as a sacrifice; all sacrificial animals, such as cattle, pigs,
etc., were domesticated animals.
Below the nobility we find large numbers of dependent people; modern
Chinese scholars call them frequently "slaves" and speak of a "slave
society". There is no doubt that at least some farmers were "free
farmers"; others were
|
, a day's hunting involved the employment of some half-dozen
people, and the expenditure of as many pounds. With all this forethought
it was not surprising that she should have found herself riding home at
nightfall, alone and unattended, perfectly satisfied nevertheless with
her situation, and utterly forgetful of the groom, whose horse had lost
a shoe, and who was to overtake her as soon as another had been put on.
So she patted her favourite's neck, smiled, sighed, shook her head, and
relapsed into a brown study and a walk.
The rain gave her but little warning. Two or three large drops fell on
the sleeves of her habit, then came a squall and a driving shower, such
as wets the best broadcloth through and through in less than five
minutes. Even the good horse shook his ears in mute protest; and Mrs.
Lascelles was fain to sidle him under the hedge, cowering for as much
shelter as could be got from the ivy-covered stem of a stunted pollard
tree.
People have different ideas of pleasure. For some, the most
uncomfortable incidents of the chase borrow a charm from the seductive
pursuit to which they are unavoidable drawbacks. The infatuated votary
accepts falls, lame horses, drenched garments, long rides in the dark,
considerable fatigue, and occasional peril of body, with an equanimity
marvellous to the uninitiated; and only to be accounted for by the
strange perversity of human nature when in headlong pursuit of an idea.
Perhaps, after all, the career of life is not inaptly represented by a
run with hounds. Difficulties to be surmounted and risks to be
encountered add infinitely to the zest of both. In each, there are
unremitting exertions to get forward, a constant strain to be nearer and
yet nearer some imaginary place of prominence and superiority--an
emulation mellowed by good-fellowship with those whom we like and
respect for their very efforts to surpass ourselves--a keen excitement
damped only by vague wonder that the stimulant should be so powerful, by
dim misgivings of which the fatal _cui bono_? is at the root; lastly, a
pleasing sense of fatigue and contentment, of resignation rather than
regret, when the whirl and tumult of the day are over, and it is time to
go home.
Mrs. Lascelles, sitting in a wet habit under the hedge, neither drooped
with fatigue nor shivered with cold. Her reflections must have been
strangely pleasant, for she was almost disappointed when her servant
trotted up with the lately shod horse, and touching his hat
respectfully, suggested that the weather was getting "worser"--that the
horses would catch their deaths, poor things!--that it was still five
miles to the station, and that they should proceed--he called it "shog
on"--in that direction without delay.
The groom was a sober fellow enough, but he had decided, with some
justice, that such a wetting as he was likely to encounter justified a
glass of brandy on leaving the blacksmith's shop.
His loyalty to his mistress and love for the good animals under his
charge were, doubtless, not diminished by this cordial; and while with
numbed fingers he unrolled the waterproof cape that was buckled before
his own saddle, and wrapped it round her dripping shoulders, he could
not forbear congratulating Mrs. Lascelles, that "things," as he
expressed it, "was no wuss."
"The 'osses is tired, ma'am, no doubt, an' a long trashing day it's been
for 'osses; but, bless ye, Ganymede, he won't take no notice; he'll have
his head in the manger soon as ever his girths is slacked, and they're
both of 'em as sound as when they left the stable. Ah! we've much to be
thankful for, we have! but how you're to get to the station, ma'am,
without a ducking--that's wot beats me!"
"I must take my ducking, I suppose, James, and make the best of it,"
she answered, pleasantly; "but it's going to be a fearful night. It
comes on worse every minute."
James, who had dropped back a horse's length, now pressed eagerly
forward.
"I hear wheels, ma'am," said he, "and it's a'most a living certainty as
they're going our way. If it was me, I'd make so bold as ask for a lift
inside. Ganymede, he'll lead like a child, and you'll have all the more
time to--to--shift yerself, ma'am, afore the train be due."
While he spoke, a one-horse fly, with luggage on the top, halted at her
side, a window was let down, and a pleasant woman's voice from within
proffered, to the benighted lady on horseback, any accommodation in the
power of the occupant to bestow.
It was already too dark to distinguish faces; but the stranger's tones
were courteous and winning. Mrs. Lascelles had no hesitation in availing
herself of so opportune a shelter. The flyman was off his box in a
twinkling, the lady leaped as quickly to the ground, James signified his
approval, Ganymede gave himself a shake, and in another minute Mrs.
Lascelles found herself jerking, jolting, and jingling towards the
station by the side of a perfect stranger, whose features, in the
increasing obscurity, she strove vainly to make out.
Some indefinable instinct suggested to her, however, that her companion
was young and pretty. A certain subtle fragrance which may or may not be
the result of scents and essences, but which seems indigenous to all
taking women, pervaded her gloves, her hair, her gown, nay, the very
winter jacket with which she defied the cold. The rustle of her dress as
she made room, the touch of her hand as she took sundry wraps from the
front seat of the carriage and heaped them in her guest's lap, told Mrs.
Lascelles that this errant damsel, wandering about in a hired fly
through the rain, was one for whom lances had already been broken, and
champions, it may be, laid gasping on the plain. For several seconds
she racked her brains, wondering who and what the traveller could be,
where coming from, where going to, why she had never met, nor heard of
her before.
It was not to be expected that silence between these two ladies should
last long. Cross-examining each other with great caution and politeness,
they presently discovered that they were both bound for London, and by
the same train. This coincidence involved, no doubt, a feeling of
sisterhood and mutual confidence; yet the coloured lights of the station
were already visible, and the fly was turning into its gravelled area,
ere Mrs. Lascelles could divine with any certainty the place her
companion had lately quitted.
"What a long drive it is, to be sure!" observed the latter wearily. "And
they call it only five miles to Midcombe Junction from Blackgrove!"
Mrs. Lascelles felt her heart give a jump, and she caught her breath.
"From Blackgrove!" she repeated. "Do you know Sir Henry Hallaton?"
"I _do_ know Sir Henry," replied the other with emphasis. "I know him
thoroughly!"
CHAPTER II.
AN ALLIANCE.
In the boudoir of a dear little house, just far enough off Piccadilly to
be out of the roar of its carriages, sat Mrs. Lascelles, "waiting
luncheon," as she called it, for her travelling companion of the day
before.
The ladies had been so charmed with each other in their railway journey
the previous evening, that an invitation to the pleasantest of all meals
was given, and accepted with great cordiality, before they parted; and
the mistress of No. 40, as she loved to designate it, was glad to think
that her pretty home should look its best for the reception of this new
friend. A canary was perched in the window, a fire blazed in the grate,
a pug-dog was snoring happily on the rug, a bullfinch swelling in
splendid sulks on the work-table: with a peal at the door bell this
simple machinery seemed all set in motion at once--the canary twittered,
the pug barked, the bullfinch subsided, Mrs. Lascelles jumped up, the
door opened, and a footman announced "Miss Ross!"
If Miss Ross looked well under the dim light of a railway carriage, she
lost nothing of her prestige when exposed to the full glare of day. She
was pale, certainly, and perhaps a little too thin, but her black eyes
were certainly splendid; while over her rather irregular features and
her too resolute mouth and chin was cast a wild, mournful expression,
half pathetic, half defiant, expressly calculated, it would seem, for
the subjugation of mankind, especially that portion who have outlived
the fresher and more healthy tastes of youth; add to this, masses of
black hair, a little bonnet with a scarlet flower, a graceful figure,
lithe as a panther's, clad in a dark but very becoming dress, and I
submit that the general effect of such an arrival fully justified the
disturbance it created in the boudoir at No. 40.
Mrs. Lascelles, it is needless to observe, took in all these details at
a glance,--she had "reckoned up" her visitor, as the Yankees say, long
before she let go the hands she clasped in both her own with so cordial
a welcome.
"This woman," thought she, "would be a formidable enemy. I wonder
whether she might not also prove a valuable friend."
Then, sharp and cold, shot through her the misgiving of the day before;
what had she been doing at Blackgrove, this dark-eyed girl, and what did
she know of Sir Henry Hallaton? No stone would she leave unturned till
she found out.
Miss Ross, however, did not seem at all a mysterious person, at least on
the surface.
Before she had taken off her bonnet and made friends with the pug, she
had already broached the subject nearest the other's heart.
"You are very kind to me, Mrs. Lascelles," she said, folding the pug's
ears back with her white, well-shaped hands; "but I must not come into
your house and waste your substance under false colours. Do I look like
an adventurer, adventuress,--what do you call it?--a person who lives
from hand to mouth, who has no settled abode,--a sort of
decently-dressed vagrant, not exactly starving, but barely respectable?
Because that's what I _am_!"
Mrs. Lascelles stared, and called her dog away.
"I went to Blackgrove as an adventuress," continued Miss Ross, in calm,
placid tones, with no appearance of earnestness but in the firm lines
round her mouth, "I left it as an adventuress. I can hold my own
anywhere, and with any one; but I should have been worse than I am had
I stayed a day longer in that house!"
"Tell me about it!" exclaimed Mrs. Lascelles eagerly. "I am sure you are
not--not--at all the sort of person I shouldn't like to know."
"I _will_ tell you," said the other, speaking lower and faster now, with
a bright gleam in her black eyes. "I haven't a friend in the world--I
never _did_ have a woman friend; if I had--well, it's no use thinking of
that now. Never mind; I'll tell you every thing, because--because I
fancy I can guess something, and you ought to know. Have you ever seen
Miss Hallaton, Helen Hallaton?--a girl with black eye-brows, and a face
like an old Greek _bas-relief_. Well, I was to be Helen's
companion;--does that surprise you? If you were a widower, Mrs.
Lascelles, and had daughters, am I the sort of person you would engage
as their companion?"
It was a difficult question. From the widower's point of view, Mrs.
Lascelles was not quite sure but she _would_. Miss Ross, however, went
on without waiting for an answer.
"Shall I tell you how I lived before I ever thought of being anybody's
companion? Shall I tell you all I learned in a school at Dieppe, in a
convent at Paris, amongst the strange people who struggle on for bare
existence in the foreign quarter of London? I have sat for a model at
half a crown an hour; I have sung in a music-hall at half-a-guinea a
night. I suppose it was my own fault that I was born without a home,
without a position, without parents, as I sometimes think,--certainly
without a conscience and without a heart! Yet I know hundreds who have
been twice as bad as I ever was, without half my excuses. Mrs.
Lascelles, I have been at war with most of my own sex and the whole of
the other ever since the days of short frocks and a skipping-rope. Don't
you think I must sometimes long to sit down and rest, to leave off being
a she-Arab, if only for half an hour?"
"Was that why you went to Blackgrove?" asked the other, wondering,
interested, a little frightened, yet also a little fascinated, by her
guest.
"I was in London with a capital of three pounds seventeen shillings,"
laughed Miss Ross, "and a personalty of five dresses, two bracelets, and
Alfred de Musset's poems half-bound, the morning I answered the
advertisement that took me to Blackgrove. Can you believe that when I
left it yesterday, I might have stayed, if I had chosen, as mistress of
the house, the flower garden, the whole establishment, and wife of the
worst--well, _one_ of the worst men I have ever had to do with? For a
moment I hesitated--I own I hesitated; though I knew her so little, I
could almost have done it for Helen's sake. Mrs. Lascelles, that girl is
an angel, and her father is--is--not to use strong language--_quite the
reverse_."
Mrs. Lascelles was woman enough to defend an absent friend, and the
colour rose to her brow while she thought how confidentially they were
riding together along the Bragford road not twenty-four hours ago.
"I have known Sir Henry some time," she said, drawing herself up, and
blushing yet deeper to reflect that the "some time" was but a very few
weeks after all; "I cannot believe him what you describe. You ought not
to say such things if you have no proof of them."
"It was to prove them I came here to-day," replied Miss Ross. "It was to
prevent a bad man from making a fool of another woman as he has tried to
make a fool of me. Plain speaking, Mrs. Lascelles, but listen to my
story before you ring the bell for the footman to turn me out of the
house. The first fortnight I was at Blackgrove I never saw the papa at
all; and I honestly own I was becoming every day more attached to the
eldest girl. It was a quiet, peaceful life; and what with the country
air, the sleep, the fresh butter and cream, I began to feel quite strong
and healthy. Sometimes I thought I was even getting gentle and almost
good; I do believe I could have lived there with Helen, and looked after
the younger ones, and gone to bed at ten o'clock, and never wanted
change or excitement for years. I don't know--it seems as if it was not
_me_, but somebody else, who passed such a calm and happy fortnight in
that quiet old country house.
"But I woke up the first day Sir Henry came home. I was looking my best,
and he took care I should know he thought so before he had been five
minutes in the room. At dinner, too, he was perfectly odious, and the
way he helped me to claret, after three hours' acquaintance, was an
insult in itself. Can you believe the man wrote me a letter that very
night, and had the effrontery to put it on my pincushion himself after I
had gone down to breakfast? Such a letter! excusing the outrageous
nature of the whole proceeding, and thus showing he knew perfectly well
how badly he was behaving, on the score, if you please, of his age and
experience in such matters! He had often fancied himself in love before,
he said, but he now knew that he had met his fate for the first and last
time. He should leave home, he protested, that same day, and unless I
could give him some hope of toleration, if not of forgiveness, should
probably never return, for he dreaded my displeasure more even than he
loved the very ground I trod on, &c., &c. All in the worst and washiest
style, as silly and vulgar as a Valentine! But he didn't leave home;
for, to my dismay, he appeared at tea-time, on the best possible terms
with himself, having been out all the morning with the Bragford hounds,
and lunched, as he told us, in very charming society at the 'Peacock.'"
A Red Indian displays, I believe, wonderful fortitude and self-command
under punishment, but a woman tortured by another woman far surpasses
the savage in the calm hypocrisy with which she masks and subdues her
pangs. Not a quiver in her voice, not a shadow on her face, betrayed
more than natural curiosity, while Mrs. Lascelles inquired, in a tone of
perfect unconcern:
"Do you remember, by chance, whether it was the day of the railway
accident?"
The day of the railway accident was impressed on her memory, less indeed
by the collision, which only damaged a few trucks in a goods-train, than
by an interview she held with Sir Henry after luncheon, in which he had
given her to understand, as distinctly as he could without saying it in
so many words, that amongst all the women of the world there was but one
for _him_, and her name was Rose Lascelles!
"I _do_ remember something about a smash that same day at Bragford
Station," answered Miss Ross, "and it seemed to me miraculous that
nobody was hurt. I only saw it in the papers next morning, for Sir Henry
never mentioned the subject--I suppose he was so full of other matters."
"What do you mean?" said Mrs. Lascelles, getting up to stir the fire,
and so turning her face from her companion. "You think I am interested
in Sir Henry Hallaton, and you have got something more to tell me about
him. Frankly, I _am_ interested--to a certain extent. Be as open with me
as I am with you, and tell me all you know."
Miss Ross took the pug on her lap, settled herself in a comfortable
attitude, and proceeded calmly with her narrative.
"That same evening, when the girls went to bed, Sir Henry detained me,
almost by force, in the library. Without the slightest reserve or
hesitation, he related all the particulars of his interview that
afternoon with yourself. He assured me solemnly, that you were avowedly
attached to him, and ready at any time to become his wife. He showed me
a letter you wrote him, and a ring you had given him to keep."
"He took it to be mended!" interrupted the other, with great
indignation. "I never gave it him--I insisted on having it back that
very day."
"It wouldn't come off," proceeded Miss Ross, "for I own I was malicious
enough to ask for it as a proof of his sincerity, and I couldn't help
laughing while he tugged and tugged to get it over the joint of his
little finger. Then he told me that he had thought of marrying only for
the sake of his daughters; that he had looked about him for what the
advertisements call 'a suitable person,' and had selected Mrs.
Lascelles--I use his own words--as a lady-like woman, with a good
fortune, not at all bad-looking, and thoroughly devoted to himself."
"Upon my word, I am very much obliged to him!" broke, in the other, with
but little more vehemence, after all, than the occasion demanded. "The
man has lied to you like a villain! and his lie is all the more cowardly
that it has a certain leaven of truth. Engaged to him I never was; love
him I never did; I might have _liked_ him, perhaps, if I hadn't found
him out in time, but there is no fear that I shall ever like him now!"
"All this fiction, then," continued Miss Ross, "served as a preamble for
a proposal in form to the young lady who had entered his house as
companion to his daughters, and whom he was bound, by every manly
sentiment, to shelter and protect. I told him so, and he answered that
he could in no way fulfil this duty so completely as by making me his
wife. Then I laughed at him--I couldn't help it--and he looked so hurt
and sad, for he's not a bad actor, that I almost pitied him for the
moment, as you _do_ pity people on the stage, though you know it's
acting all the time. At last I got sleepy, and wanted to go to bed, so I
determined to put him to a real test, knowing perfectly well what would
be the result.
"I pretended to soften. I gave him my hand, no more, though he was an
old player, and obviously accustomed to consider such concessions the
preliminaries of a winning game. Then I told him he ought to know my
history; that I had entered his house under false pretences; that long
ago, and far away (this is _true_, Mrs. Lascelles, but let it never
again be alluded to by you or me), I had loved and been deceived, and
could never care for any one in that way again. Lastly, I reminded him
of his children, his age (I couldn't resist _that_!) and his position,
watching him very narrowly while I shammed a good cry, and sobbed out
'Sir Henry, I am not fit to be your wife.'
"Then I unmasked my man, just as I expected all along. His face
brightened, he never dropped my hand, he looked pleased and altogether
relieved, while he embarked on a long and fluent dissertation, in which
he insisted on the advantages of a protector and a home, on his own
merits, on my friendless position, and on the reparation I owed him for
his resolution at once to break off with _you_. Not a word now about
matrimony. Oh! I was never deceived in him from the beginning--not for a
moment!
"I told him so. 'Do you think,' I said, 'after all I have gone through,
after all I have confessed to you, that I have a spark of sentiment, an
atom of romance left--that I would trust myself to the tender mercies of
any man living, except as his wife?'
"He turned pale, walked to the fire, poked it furiously, and came back
with his hands in his pockets glaring at me like a tiger. 'Then _be_ my
wife, Miss Ross!' he growled. 'You won't like it, but I'll do my best to
make you happier than the others!' He was horridly put out, I saw, so I
made him a curtsy, took my candlestick, and marched off to bed. I locked
my door, you may be sure, and as he was off early next morning to pay a
visit in the neighbourhood, he came and knocked several times to wish me
'Good-bye,' but I pretended to be asleep, and before he returned
yesterday I was gone.
"Mrs. Lascelles, you are the only person who was ever good to me without
a selfish motive. I have tried to repay you by putting you on your
guard. I can begin my fight with the world where I left off--I rather
like it. But think of me kindly sometimes, and try not to forget our
drive in the dark to Midcombe Station. I must go now. I don't suppose we
shall ever meet again!"
But she didn't go, notwithstanding, for Mrs. Lascelles had many more
questions to ask, many more confidences to receive, all tending to the
condemnation of her false adorer, Sir Henry Hallaton. Tea-time found the
ladies still in earnest conclave, and their intimacy must have been
closely cemented, for Miss Ross had already confided to her hostess that
her Christian name was Virginie, and that she was familiarly called
"Jin."
CHAPTER III.
SIR HENRY HALLATON.
Warriors of long standing, who, like the Latin poet, have "militated,"
not without success, in many campaigns against the Fair, accept
reverses, scars, and even knock-down blows, with a wondrous affectation,
at least, of stoicism and unconcern. I have my own opinion on these
matters, and hold that the raw recruit, though he may bleed more freely,
may make wryer faces over his gashes, thrusts, and gun-shot wounds, yet
recovers their effects sooner and more completely than the drier and
tougher veteran. The heart, I think, is mended less and less easily
after each successive breakage. At last, like an old boot that has been
patched and cobbled over and over again, it lets in the enemy with a
sadly wasteful facility, and the careless Don Juan of twenty finds
himself a jealous, fretful, unhappy, yet dotingly devoted Don Alfonso at
fifty. There is retribution perhaps even here. A man who lavishes his
money in youth, becomes the slave of a guinea in old age. There must be
a day of reckoning for waste of time, health, intellect--why not also
for a reckless squandering of the affections? Whatever may have been its
practice, the moral code of chivalry was, doubtless, of the noblest and
the best. Men little know what they throw away in that thoughtless
prostitution of the heart which they are never taught to consider weak,
unmanly, and dishonourable. They abandon the brightest beacon to renown,
the surest guide to success, nay, one of the nearest paths to heaven.
All these are to be found in an honest love for a pure woman, and all
these are bartered every day for the smile of a coquette, or the empty
vanity of an hour.
When it is too late, there is something very piteous in that longing of
human nature for the good and the true, which causes it to accept, with
its eyes open, the false and the bad. A second marriage, when the first
had been a failure, was described by a well-known wit as "the triumph of
hope over experience;" surely the grasping at a shadow, when the
substance has proved unattainable, may be called the anodyne of illusion
for despair. "I only ask to be happy and to have every thing my own
way," is the unreasonable outcry of youth, embarking on a summer-sea
with fair wind and hopeful promise, though the golden islands are yet,
as they ever will be throughout the voyage, below the horizon, and the
safe anchorage of thoughtless childhood is already far on the lee.
"I have a right to be happy!" shouts manhood in stern defiance and
rebellion, when the waves are rising and the storm darkens around,
while he ploughs his way towards his aim by dint of ceaseless toil and
weary watches, and heart-breaking efforts that are in themselves
unhappiness and pain.
"I deserve to have been happy!" grumbles old age, though the haven is at
last in sight,--sorrowful but not penitent, regretting with revilings
and maledictions, not with remorse and self-reproach, the fair
opportunities neglected, the chances lost or thrown away,--ready on the
vaguest and wildest encouragement to 'boutship even now, and, reckless
of shrivelled sails and used-up stores, to put out into that dark,
dreary, disheartening sea once more.
It is well for man and woman too to have known a deep, engrossing, and
sincere affection; so elevating as to have ennobled their existence with
its lustre, so strong as to have swept all rivalry from its path, so
prosperous that they have never been driven to seek in paltry imitations
some fictitious solace for its loss.
Sir Henry Hallaton had been twice married; first, in his early youth,
when he became the victim of one of those women happily rare in our
English society, who literally go about seeking whom they may devour.
She accepted him after a week's acquaintance, and was tired of him in
less than a year. Then she ran away with a foreign Count, physically,
mentally, and socially, far inferior to her husband; and in moral
qualities, at least, _then_, not fit to black his boots. Who shall
explain these things? Sir Henry had a shot at the Count, and winged him;
but so madly was he in love with the woman by whom he had been thus
outraged, that he refused to try for a divorce. Had she not died a few
months later, he believed she might have returned to him--and he would
have taken her back! This consideration somewhat softened the pain he
was weak enough to feel in her loss. Then he married again a lady who
was devoted to _him_, this time, and who bore him a family, of which
his daughter Helen was the eldest. That he proved a faithful husband to
this true and affectionate wife, I cannot take upon myself to affirm,
but he was good to the children, and especially fond of his eldest.
After a few short years he lost his second wife too, and now began the
least excusable part of Sir Henry's life.
He was still handsome, with all the energy and most of the tastes of
youth. He was gay, popular, somewhat unscrupulous, and a great favourite
with women. The married ones liked him well enough, in all honour; and
of such he used to say, that "they could take care of themselves;" but
amongst the unmarried, many aspired to legal possession of himself and
his home; with these, unless he was much belied, he took cruel advantage
of feelings he ought never to have awakened, and hopes he never intended
to fulfil.
There were strange stories of Sir Henry's rides with Miss Fanny, and his
walks with Miss Violet, of the pic-nic that got Lady Jane into such a
scrape with her aunt, and the disappearance for several more hours than
was decorous of a young beauty, once the pride of half a dozen parishes,
subsequently ostracised for misdemeanours, in which she was far the
least erring culprit of the two. Scandals like these, however, neither
caused people to shut their doors against the reckless baronet, nor,
indeed, brought him into such disrepute as might have been expected with
that jury of matrons who constitute the court of appeal for county
society, and whose verdict in defiance of all evidence is almost always
given in condemnation of the accused. Had it not been for Helen, perhaps
Sir Henry, in an unguarded moment, would have surrendered himself once
for all, to recommence his search after happiness in matrimonial
fetters, calculated not only to impede his activity but creating much
untoward noise and jingle in his pursuit. The image of his child, I
believe, saved him many times from folly, more than once from guilt.
The temptation must have been very great, the seductions more than
ordinarily powerful, that could have induced Sir Henry either to abandon
his daughter and his home, or to place another in that home, over that
daughter's head. His last, and one of his most foolish escapades, had
been a sudden infatuation for Miss Ross. He was also not a little
ashamed of his discomfiture, at her cavalier rejection of his addresses,
and masterly retreat from his house.
The morning after her departure Sir Henry sat at breakfast, revolving in
his mind many matters of affection and sentiment, which did not,
however, seem to affect his spirits or his appetite. He was a late man,
and his family, consisting of three daughters, for the only son was
abroad with his regiment, generally dispersed to their several
occupations before he came down. Only Helen, after she had ordered
dinner and set the domestic works of the establishment in motion,
habitually paid him a visit to pour out his tea and chat with her papa
while he ate. To-day, she was later than usual, and her absence gave him
time to reflect on his demonstration and its repulse. Strange to say,
while he saw the folly of which he would fain have been guilty, and
laughed indulgently at his own infatuation, there was a degree of
soreness about his failure, more galling than that of disappointed
fantasy, or mere wounded self-love.
"Can it be that I _really_ care for this girl?" thought Sir Henry; "and
if so, that I of all men in the world am likely to be baffled in my
pursuit? Have I quite lost the art in which I was tolerably perfect
twenty, ten, ay, five years ago? and even if I have, is it not worth
anything to know that I can feel as I used, and am young in heart and
affections still?"
He would have got up and stared in the glass, deploring, as he often
did, the wrinkles about his eyes, the grey hairs in his whiskers, but
that Helen coming into the room began to pour out his tea and look
after the comforts of his repast.
She was a girl to be proud of, ay, and fond of too. Miss Ross described
her beauty graphically enough when she said it was that of an old Greek
_bas-relief_. The features were as regular, the brow as low and wide,
the under part of the face slightly prominent, and the mouth, when seen
in front, forming that beautiful curve so rarely modelled but in the
antique--such a mouth as denotes sensibility, firmness, courage,
sympathy, and other noble characteristics of womankind.
In addition to these advantages, Helen possessed what are called "Irish
eyes"--deep, soft, and winning, frank, modest, and full of intellect. I
can think of no other epithet to convey their lustre and their charm.
They were, probably, blue-grey, like Minerva's, but you never thought of
their colour, fringed as they were by curling eye-lashes darker than her
hair, and surmounted by firm, well-defined eye-brows of a yet deeper
shade than either. She was rather tall, too, and handsomely formed, with
shapely hands and feet; but the graceful figure suggested a fair amount
of strength and energy, nor were you surprised to learn that she could
ride, walk, garden, and milk a cow. There were few better waltzers
anywhere, and no such skater in the shire. Moreover, though she never
confessed to it, I believe she used to play cricket with her brother,
and was an undeniable long-stop.
Sir Henry looked fondly in her face, and his heart smote him to think
that he should ever have contemplated the possibility of setting any
other woman over his daughter's head.
"Letters, Nelly," said he, tossing her over a packet of them to open,
while he proceeded with his breakfast. "The old story, of course, county
meetings, advertisements for wire-fences, curse them! cheap wines;
nothing from Harry--he never writes but when he wants money--to be sure
that's nearly every mail--and two or three tradesmen's bills, which you
may put in the fire without opening."
"Why don't you _pay_ your bills?" said Miss Helen, who was rather fond
of lecturing her papa; it was her favourite way of petting him. "You let
them run up, and forget all about it; and then, when you want to buy a
horse, the money is required for something else. Now, look at me; I keep
the house accounts to a fraction, and pay them the first Monday in every
month to a minute."
Sir Henry laughed.
"How can I
|
the National Gallery. With regard to the
notes in the Numerical Catalogue, my object has been to interest the
daily increasing numbers of the general public who visit the National
Gallery. The full inventories and other details, which are necessary
for the identification of pictures, and which are most admirably given
in the (unabridged) Official Catalogue--would obviously be out of place
in a book designed for popular use. Nor, secondly, would any elaborate
technical criticism have been in keeping--even had it been in my power
to offer it--with a guide intended for unprofessional readers. C. R.
Leslie, the father of the present Academician, tells how he "spoke one
day to Stothard of his touching picture of a sailor taking leave of his
wife or sweetheart. 'I am glad you like it, sir,' said Stothard; 'it
was painted with japanner's gold size.'" I have been mainly concerned
with the sentiment of the pictures, and have for the most part left the
"japanner's gold size" alone.
=Mr. Ruskin's Notes.=--It had often occurred to me, as a student of
Mr. Ruskin's writings, that a collection of his scattered notes upon
painters and pictures now in the National Gallery would be of great
value. I applied to Mr. Ruskin in the matter, and he readily permitted
me to make what use I liked of any, or all, of his writings. The
generosity of this permission, which was supplemented by constant
encouragement and counsel, makes me the more anxious to explain clearly
the limits of his responsibility for the book. He did not attempt to
revise, or correct, either my gleanings from his own books, or the
notes added by myself from other sources. Beyond his general permission
to me to reprint his past writings, Mr. Ruskin had, therefore,
no responsibility for this compilation whatever. I should more
particularly state that the pages upon the Turner Gallery in the Second
Volume were not even glanced at by him. The criticisms from his books
there collected represent, therefore, solely his attitude to Turner at
the time they were severally written. But, subject to this deduction,
the passages from Ruskin arranged throughout the following pages
will, I hope, enable the _Handbook_ to serve a second purpose. Any
student who goes through the Gallery under Ruskin's guidance--even at
second-hand--can hardly fail to obtain some insight into the system of
art-teaching embodied in his works. The full exposition of that system
must still be studied in the original text-books, but here the reader
may find a series of examples and illustrations which will perhaps make
the study more vivid and actual.
=Attribution of Pictures.=--In the matter of _attributions_, the rule,
in the successive editions of this Handbook, has been to follow the
authority of the Official Labels and Catalogues. Criticism has been
very busy of late years with the traditional attribution of pictures
in our Gallery, and successive Directors introduce their several, and
sometimes contradictory, opinions on such points. Thus more than One
Old Master hitherto supposed to be represented in the Gallery has
been banished, and others, whose fame had not previously been bruited
abroad, have been credited with familiar masterpieces. Thus--to
notice some of the changes made by Sir Edward Poynter (Catalogue of
1906)--among the Venetians, Bastiani and Catena have come into favour.
To Bastiani was given the picture of "The Doge Giovanni Mocenigo" (750)
which for forty years has been exhibited as a work by Carpaccio; that
charming painter now disappears from the National Gallery. To Catena
is attributed the "St. Jerome" (694), which for several decades had
been cited as peculiarly characteristic of Bellini. To Catena also is
given the "Warrior in Adoration" (234). In this case Catena's gain is
Giorgione's loss. But elsewhere Giorgione has received compensation for
disturbance. To him has been given the "Adoration of the Magi" (1160),
which some critics attributed to Catena. The beautiful "Ecce Homo"
(1310), which was sold as a Carlo Dolci and bought by Sir Frederick
Burton as a Bellini, was ascribed by Sir Edward Poynter to Cima. One
of the minor Venetians--Basaiti, who enjoyed a high reputation at the
National Gallery--was deprived of the pretty "Madonna of the Meadow"
(599), which went to swell the opulent record of Bellini. Among the
Florentines, a newcomer is Zenobio Macchiavelli, to whom is attributed
an altar-piece (586) formerly catalogued under the name of Fra Filippo
Lippi. Cosimo Rosselli, hitherto credited with a large "St. Jerome in
the Desert" (227), now disappears; it was labelled "Tuscan School,"
and was any one's picture. The attribution of pictures belonging to
the group of the two Lippis and Botticelli is still very uncertain.
A note on these critical diversities will be found under No. 293.
Among alterations in other schools we may note the substitution of
Zurbaran for Velazquez as the painter of "The Nativity," No. 232; the
attribution to Patinir, the Fleming, of a landscape formerly labelled
"Venetian School" (1298); and the discovery of Jacob van Oost as the
painter of a charming "Portrait of a Boy" (1137), which, but for an
impossibility in the dates, might well continue to pass as Isaac van
Ostade's.
Such were the principal changes made in the ascriptions of the pictures
during Sir Edward Poynter's directorate. His successor, Sir Charles
Holroyd, has recently made many others, as shown in the following list:
97 (_P. Veronese_), now described as "after Veronese."
215, 216 (_School of T. Gaddi_), now assigned to _Lorenzo
Monaco_ (_see_ 1897).
227 (_Florentine School_), now assigned to _Francesco
Botticini_ (a Tuscan painter of the 15th century).
276 (_School of Giotto_), now assigned to _Spinello Aretino_;
for whom, _see_ 581.
296 (_Florentine School_), now assigned to _Verrocchio_; _see_
below, p. 262.
568 (_School of Giotto_), now assigned to _Angelo di Taddeo
Gaddi_, a pupil of Giotto's chief disciple, Taddeo Gaddi (for
whom, _see_ p. 211).
579 (_School of Taddeo Gaddi_), now assigned to _Niccolo di
Pietro Gerini_, a painter of Florence who was inscribed in the
guild in 1368 and died in 1415. Our picture is dated 1387.
579A (_School of Taddeo Gaddi_), now assigned to Gaddi's pupil,
_Giovanni da Milano_.
581 (_Spinello Aretino_), now assigned to _Orcagna_; for whom,
_see_ 569.
585 (_Umbrian School_), now assigned to "School of
_Pollajuolo_"; for whom, _see_ 292.
591 (_Benozzo Gozzoli_), now described as "School of Benozzo."
592 (_Filippino Lippi_), now assigned to _Botticelli_; _see
below_, p. 294 _n._
599 (_Giovanni Bellini_), now re-assigned to _Basaiti_; _see
below_, p. 299.
636 (_Titian_ or _Palma_). After a period of ascription to
Titian, this portrait is now re-assigned to _Palma_; _see
below_, p. 315.
650 (_Angelo Bronzino_), now assigned to his pupil, _Alessandro
Allori_ (Florentine: 1535-1607).
654 (_School of Roger van der Weyden_), now assigned to _School
of Robert Campin_; for whom, _see_ 2608.
655 (_Bernard van Orley_), now ascribed to _Ambrosius Benson_;
born in Lombardy, painted in Bruges, living in 1545.
658 (_after Schongauer_), now assigned to _School of Campin_.
The picture ascribed to the "Master of Flémalle," as referred
to in the text (p. 328), is now No. 2608 (also now assigned to
Campin).
659 (_Johann Rottenhammer_), now assigned to _Jan Brueghel, the
younger_ (1601-1667), a scholar of Brueghel, the elder.
664 (_Roger van der Weyden_), now assigned to _Dierick Bouts_;
for whom, _see_ 2595.
670 (_Angelo Bronzino_), now described as "School of Bronzino."
696 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to _Petrus Cristus_; for
whom, _see_ 2593.
704 (_Bronzino_), now described as "School of Bronzino."
709 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to _Memlinc_; for whom,
_see_ 686.
713 (_Jan Mostaert_), now assigned to _Jan Prevost_ (Flemish:
1462-1529), a painter of Bruges and a friend of Albert Dürer.
714 (_Cornelis Engelbertsz_), now assigned to _Bernard van
Orley_; for whom, _see_ 655.
715 (_Joachim Patinir_), now assigned to _Quentin Metsys_; for
whom, _see_ 295.
750 (_Lazzaro Bastiani_), now described as "School of Gentile
Bellini"; for whom, _see_ 1213.
774 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to _Dierick Bouts_; for
whom, _see_ 2595.
779, 780 (_Borgognone_), now described as "School of
Borgognone."
781 (_Florentine School_), now attributed to _Botticini_.
782 (_Botticelli_), now described as "School of Botticelli."
808 (_Giovanni Bellini_), now assigned to _Gentile Bellini_;
_see below_, p. 422 _n._
916 (_School of Botticelli_), now assigned to _Jacopo del
Sellaio_; for whom, _see_ 2492.
943 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to _D. Bouts_.
1017 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to _Josse de Momper_;
_see below_, p. 489.
1033 (_Filippino Lippi_), now assigned to _Botticelli_; _see
below_, p. 494.
1048 (_Italian_), now assigned to _Scipione Pulzone_; _see
below_, p. 505.
1078, 1079 (_Flemish School_), now "attributed to _Gerard
David_"; for whom, _see_ 1045.
1080 (_School of the Rhine_), now assigned to _Flemish School_.
1083 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to _Albrecht Bouts_ (a
son of D. Bouts), who died in 1549.
1085 (_School of the Rhine_), now assigned to _Geertgen Tot
Sint Jans_ (Dutch: 15th century). This painter was a pupil of
Albert van Ouwater; he established himself at Haarlem in a
convent belonging to the Knights of St. John (whence his name,
Gerard of St. John's). His works were seen and admired by Dürer.
1086 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to the "School of Robert
Campin"; for whom, _see_ 2608.
1109A (_Mengs_). To this picture the number 1099 (noted in
previous editions of this _Handbook_ as having been missed in
the official numbering) is now given.
1121 (_Venetian School_), now assigned to _Catena_; for whom,
_see_ 234.
1124 (_Filippino Lippi_), now described as "School of
Botticelli."
1126 (_Botticelli_), now assigned to _Botticini_; _see_ on this
subject p. 536 _n._
1160 (_School of Giorgione_), now assigned to _Giorgione_
himself.
1199 (_Florentine School_), now assigned to _Pier Francesco
Fiorentino_; a Tuscan painter of the 15th century.
1376 (_Velazquez_), now "ascribed to Velazquez."
1412 (_Filippino Lippi_), now described as "School of
Botticelli."
1419 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to _Early French School_.
The picture formed part of a diptych; the companion picture was
in the Dudley Collection (No. 29 in the sale catalogue of 1892,
where an illustration of it was given). In this the choir of
St. Denis is shown. There are two portraits by the same hand at
Chantilly.
1433 (_Flemish School_), now assigned to _Roger van der
Weyden_; for whom, _see_ 664.
1434 (_Velazquez_), now "ascribed to Velazquez," and it is
added that the picture has been attributed to Luca Giordano
(Neapolitan: 1632-1705).
1440 (_Giovanni Bellini_), now assigned to _Gentile Bellini_;
for whom, _see_ 1213.
1468 (_Spinello Aretino_), now assigned to _Jacopo di Cione_,
the younger brother of Andrea Cione (called Orcagna); he was
still living in 1394.
1652 This picture has hitherto been assigned to the _British
School_ (and therefore included in vol. ii. of the _Handbook_),
and called a portrait of Katharine Parr. It is now discovered
to belong to the _Dutch School_ and to be a "portrait of Madame
van der Goes."
1699 (_Jan Vermeer_), now "attributed to Vermeer."
1842 (_Tuscan School_), now "attributed to _Stefano di
Giovanni_," known as _Sassetta_ (Sienese: 1392-1450).
1870 "Angels with Keys," by _Sebastiano Conca_ (Neapolitan:
1679-1764). Lent by the Victoria and Albert Museum.
1903 (_Jan Fyt_), now assigned to _Pieter Boel_ (Flemish:
1622-1674), of Antwerp, who became official painter to Louis
XIV.
It will be observed that critical fashions are unstable, and that in
several cases Sir Edward Poynter's changes have been reversed. The
recent alterations were made just as this edition of the _Handbook_ was
going to press. The ascriptions in the body of my Catalogue remain,
therefore, in conformity with the Official Catalogue of 1906 which
embodied Sir Edward Poynter's views. The lists of painters and pictures
at the end (Appendix I. and II.) have, on the other hand, been revised
in accordance with Sir Charles Holroyd's alterations.
=Additional Notes.=--In the _notes upon the pictures_, a large number
of additional remarks have been introduced since this _Handbook_
first appeared. These, it is hoped, may serve here and there to
deepen the visitor's impression, to suggest fresh points of view, to
open up incidental sources of interest. Attention may be called, by
way of example, under this head, to several notes upon the designs
depicted on the dresses, draperies, and backgrounds of the Italian
pictures. These designs, sometimes invented by the artists themselves
and sometimes copied from actual stuffs, form a series of examples
which illustrate the "art fabrics" of the best period of Italian
decorative art, and which might well give hints for the decoration of
textile fabrics to-day.[11] Another incidental source of interest in
a collection of pictures such as ours, is the historical development
of art as it may be traced in the several representations of the same
subject by different painters, in successive periods, and in different
schools. Such comparisons are instructive to those interested alike
in the evolution of art and in the history of religious ideas. In the
art of mediæval Christendom we find an unwritten theology, a popular
figurative teaching of the sublime story of Christianity blended with
the traditions of many generations. On the walls of the National
Gallery we may see a series of typical scenes from the Annunciation to
the Passion, from the childhood of Christ to His Death, Resurrection,
and Ascension, together with ideal forms of apostles and saints. These
pictures, contemplated in sequence and compared with one another,
afford, as a writer in the _Dublin Review_ (October 1888) has pointed
out, a large and interesting field for thought. Very interesting it
is also to trace the different types which prevail in the different
schools. Thus at Florence, the Madonna is a tender, shrinking, delicate
maiden. At Venice, she is a calm, serene, and pure-spirited mother.
The Florentine "handmaiden of the Lord" often wears a mystic, and
almost always an intellectual air. The Venetian type, seen at its
central perfection in Bellini, has a neck firm as a column; the child
is nude and plays with a flower or fruit; grandeur of mien and a noble
type of motherhood are the ideals the Venetian painters set before
themselves. The Lombard Madonna is less spiritual and severe than the
Florentine. A refined worldly beauty replaces here the poetic idealism
of the Tuscan artists. With the Umbrian painters the model of the
Madonna is usually a softly-rounded and very girlish maiden. A certain
mystic pensiveness informs her features. Her feet tread this earth,
but her soul is absorbed in the contemplation of the infinite.[12] A
study of the successive characteristics of Raphael's Madonnas, passing
from the vaguely divine to the frankly human, would form material
for a volume in itself.[13] In another department of the painter's
art, the comparative method of study is no less suggestive. It is one
of the most curious points of interest in any large collection of
pictures to notice the different impressions that the same elements
of natural scenery make upon different painters. As figure painting
came to be perfected, some adequate suggestion of landscape background
was required. Giotto and Orcagna first attempted to give resemblance
to nature in this respect. Subsequent painters carried the attempt
to greater success, but it was long before landscape for its own
sake obtained attention. When it did, the preferences of individual
painters, now freed from conventionalism, found abundant scope, as we
may see by pausing in succession before the flowery meadows of the
"primitives," the "fiery woodlands of Titian," the savage crags of
Salvator Rosa, the "saffron skies of Claude."[14] These are some of the
incidental points of interest upon which additional notes have been
supplied in recent editions. Many others will be discovered by the
patient reader of the following pages.
=Notices of Painters.=--Lastly, the _biographical and critical notices_
of the painters have been revised and expanded since the first
appearance of the book. Many have been re-written throughout, nearly
all have been re-cast, and a good many references to pictures in other
galleries and countries have been introduced. The important accession
to the National Gallery of the Arundel Society's unique collection
of copies from the old masters affords an opportunity even to the
untraveled visitor to become acquainted, in some sort, with the most
famous wall-paintings of Italy. Mr. Ruskin, by whose death the National
Gallery lost one of its best and oldest friends, once expressed a hope
to me that the notices of the painters given in this Handbook would
be found useful by some readers not only as a companion in Trafalgar
Square, but also for other galleries, at home and abroad. Nobody can
know better than the compiler how far Mr. Ruskin's kindness led him in
the direction of over-indulgence.
I can only hope that the later editions have been made--largely owing
to the suggestions of critics and private correspondents--a little
more deserving of the kind reception which, now for a period of nearly
twenty-five years, has been given by the public to my Handbook.
E. T. C.
_May 1912._
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Tate Gallery is ten minutes' drive or twenty minutes' walk
from Trafalgar Square. It is reached in a straight line by Whitehall,
Parliament Street, past the Houses of Parliament, Millbank Street, and
Grosvenor Road.
[2] Mr. Ruskin himself was converted by the acquisition of the great
Perugino (No. 288). In congratulating the Trustees on their acquisition
of this "noble picture," he wrote: "It at once, to my mind, raises our
National Gallery from a second-rate to a first-rate collection. I have
always loved the master, and given much time to the study of his works;
but this is the best I have ever seen" (_Notes on the Turner Gallery_,
p. 89 _n._).
[3] See, for instance, Nos. 10, 61, 193, 195, 479 and 498, 757, 790,
896, 1131, and 1171.
[4] The exterior of the building is not generally considered an
architectural success, and the ugliness of the dome is almost
proverbial. But it should be remembered that the original design
included the erection of suitable pieces of sculpture--such as may
be seen in old engravings of the Gallery, made from the architect's
drawings--on the still vacant pedestals.
[5] The several extensions of the Gallery are shown in the plan on a
later page.
[6] The total number should thus be 28; but in the reconstruction four
smaller rooms were thrown into two larger ones. The plan thus shows 25
numbered rooms and one called the "Dome."
[7] This sum only includes amounts paid out of Parliamentary grants or
other National Gallery funds or special contributions.
[8] In 1894, however, an alteration was made in the Minute, and the
responsibility for purchases was vested in the Director and the
Trustees jointly.
[9] Sir William Gregory relates in his _Autobiography_ the following
story: "In 1884, when the Trustees were endeavouring to secure some of
the pre-eminently fine Rubenses from the Duke of Marlborough, Alfred
Rothschild met me in St. James's Street, and said, 'If you think the
Blenheim Rubenses are more important than your Dutch pictures to the
Gallery, and that you cannot get the money from the Government, I am
prepared to give you £250,000 for the Peel pictures; and I will hold
good to this offer till the day after to-morrow.'"
[10] Of the 1170 pieces thus unaccounted for (the total number
belonging to the Trustees being roughly 2870) the greater number are at
Millbank. Others are on loan to provincial institutions (see App. II.).
[11] With this object in view, several of them have been published with
descriptive letterpress by Mr. Sydney Vacher.
[12] These contrasts were worked out and illustrated by Mr. Grant Allen
in his papers on "The Evolution of Italian Art" in the _Pall Mall
Magazine_ for 1895.
[13] See _Raphael's Madonnas_, by Karl Károly, 1894.
[14] Ruskin's _Modern Painters_ is of course the great book on this
subject. The evolution of "Landscape in Art" has been historically
treated by Mr. Josiah Gilbert in a work thus entitled, which contains
numerous illustrations from the National Gallery.
GUIDE TO THE GALLERY
AND
INTRODUCTIONS TO THE SCHOOLS OF PAINTING
The pictures in the National Gallery are hung methodically, so far
as the wall-space and other circumstances will admit, in order to
illustrate the different schools of painting, and to facilitate their
historical study. Introductions to the several Foreign Schools of
Painting, thus arranged, will be found in the following pages together
with references to many of the chief painters in each school who are
represented in the Gallery. Introductory remarks on the British School
and British Painters will be found in Volume II.
At the present time (May 1912) the arrangement of the Gallery is in
a transitional state, as some of the Rooms are still in process of
reconstruction or rearrangement. When this work is finished, the
arrangement of the whole Gallery will, it is expected, be as shown
below:--
ARCHAIC GREEK PORTRAITS: North Vestibule.
ITALIAN SCHOOLS:--
_Early Tuscan_: North Vestibule.
_Florentine and Sienese_: Rooms I., II., V.
_Florentine (later)_: Room III.
_Milanese_: Room IV.
_Umbrian_: Room VI.
_Venetian_: Room VII.
_Venetian (later)_: Room IX.
_Paduan_: Room VIII.
_Venice, etc._: the Dome.
_Brescian and Bergamese_: Room XV.
_Bolognese_: Room XXV.
_Late Italian_: Room XXIII.
SCHOOLS OF THE NETHERLANDS AND GERMANY:--
_Early Netherlands_: Room XI.
_Later Flemish_ (Rubens, etc.): Room X.
_Dutch_ (landscape: Ruysdael, etc.): Room XII.
_Dutch_ (Rembrandt): Room XIII.
_Dutch_: Room XIV.
_German_: Room XXIV.
SPANISH SCHOOL: Room XVI.
FRENCH SCHOOL: Rooms XVII., XVIII.
BRITISH SCHOOLS:--
_Hogarth, etc._: Room XXII.
_Reynolds, Gainsborough, etc._: Room XXI.
_Romney, Morland, etc._: Room XX.
_Turner_: Room XIX.
The rooms on the ground floor, hitherto occupied by the Turner
Water-Colours (now for the most part removed to the Tate Gallery: _see_
Vol. II.), will be arranged with pictures of minor importance, with the
Arundel Society's collection and other copies, and with photographs and
other aids to study.
It should, however, be understood that the scheme of arrangement set
out above is provisional, and may be modified. It is also possible that
the numbering of the rooms may be altered. Should this be the case, the
visitor would have no difficulty in marking the changes on the Plan.
[Illustration: PLAN OF THE ROOMS.
_W. Wilkins 1838_
_E. M. Barry 1876_
_Sir J. Taylor 1887_
VESTIBULE--_Florentine School._
ROOM I--_Florentine School._
" II--_Sienese School._
" III--_Florentine School._
" IV--_Schools of Lombardy and Parma._
" V--_Ferrarese and Bolognese Schools._
" VI--_Umbrian School._
" VII--_Venetian & Allied Schools._
" VIII--_Paduan School._
OCTAGON.--_Venetian School._
ROOM IX--_Paolo Veronese, etc._
" X--_Dutch School._
" XI--_Early Flemish School._
" XII--_Dutch School._
" XIII--_Flemish School._
" XIV--_Spanish School._
" XV--_German School._
" XVI--_French School._
" XVII--_French School._
EAST AND WEST VESTIBULES } _English_
ROOMS XVIII, XIX, XX, XXI} _School._
ROOM XXII--_Turner Gallery._
ROOM A--_Drawings._
ROOM B--_Pictures by Turner, etc._]
[Illustration]
THE EARLY FLORENTINE SCHOOL
"The early efforts of Cimabue and Giotto are the burning
messages of prophecy, delivered by the stammering lips of
infants"
(RUSKIN: _Modern Painters_, vol. i. pt. i. sec. i. ch. ii. § 7).
Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory
For daring so much, before they well did it.
The first of the new, in our race's story,
Beats the last of the old; 'tis no idle quiddit.
BROWNING: _Old Pictures in Florence_.
On entering the Gallery from Trafalgar Square, and ascending the
main staircase, the visitor reaches the North Vestibule. What, he
may be inclined to ask, is there worth looking at in the quaint and
gaunt pictures around him here? The answer is a very simple one. This
vestibule is the nursery of Italian art. Here is the first stammering
of infant painting. Accustomed as we are at the present day to so much
technical skill even in the commonest works of art, we may be inclined
to think that the art of painting--the art of giving the resemblances
of things by means of colour laid on to wood or canvas--is an easy
one, of which men have everywhere and at all times possessed the
mastery. But this of course is not the case. The skill of to-day is
the acquired result of long centuries of gradual improvement; and the
pictures in this vestibule bear the same relation to the pictures of
our own time as the stone huts of our forefathers to the Gallery in
which we stand. The poorness of the pictures here is the measure of the
richness of others. To feel the full greatness of Raphael's Madonna
(1171), one should first pause awhile before the earliest Italian
picture here (564), the gaunt and forbidding Madonna by
Margaritone of Arezzo,
With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret
(Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so,
You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?) (_R. Browning_).
But even in the earliest efforts of infancy, there is a certain
amount of inherited gift. First of all, therefore, one should look at
a specimen of such art as Italians had before them when they first
began to paint for themselves. With the fall of the Roman Empire
and the invasion of the Goths, the centre of civilisation shifted
to the capital of the Eastern Church, Byzantium (Constantinople).
The characteristics of Byzantine art may be seen in a Greek picture
(594). The history of early Italian art is the history of the effort
to escape from the swaddling clothes of this rigid Byzantine School.
The effort was of two kinds: first the painters had to see nature
truly, instead of contenting themselves with fixed symbols--art had to
become "natural," instead of "conventional." Secondly, having learned
to see truly, they had to learn how to give a true resemblance of
what they saw; how to exhibit things in relief, in perspective, and
in illumination. In _relief_: that is, they had to learn to show one
thing as standing out from another; in _perspective_: that is, to
show things as they really look, instead of as we infer they are; in
_illumination_: that is, to show things in the colours they assume
under such and such lights. The first distinct advance was made by
Cimabue and Giotto at Florence, but contemporaneous with them was the
similar work of Duccio and his successors at Siena, whose pictures
should be studied in this connection. Various stages in the advance
will be pointed out under the pictures themselves; and the student
of art will perhaps find the same kind of pleasure in tracing the
painter's progress as grown-up people feel in watching the gradual
development of children.
But there is another kind of interest also. Wordsworth says that
children are the best philosophers; and in the case of art at any
rate there is some truth in what he says, for "this is a general
law, that supposing the intellect of the workman the same, the more
imitatively complete his art, the less he will mean by it; and the
ruder the symbol, the deeper is its intention" (Ruskin's _Lectures on
Art_, § 19). The more complete his powers of imitation become, the
more intellectual interest he takes in the expression, and the less
therefore in the thing meant. What then is the meaning of these early
pictures? To answer this question, we must go back to consider what
it was that gave the original impulse to the revival of art in Italy.
To this revival two circumstances contributed. First, no school of
painting can exist until society is comparatively rich, until there
is wealth enough to support a class of men with leisure to produce
beautiful things. Such an increase of wealth took place at Florence in
the thirteenth century: the gay and courteous life of the Florentines
at that time was ready for the adornment of art. The particular
direction which art took was due to the religious revival, headed by
St. Francis and St. Dominic, which occurred at the same time. Churches
were everywhere built, and on the church walls frescoes were wanted,
alike to satisfy the growing sense of beauty and to assist in teaching
Christian doctrine. These early pictures are thus to be considered as
a kind of painted preaching. The story of Cimabue's great picture (see
No. 565) well illustrates the double origin of the revival of art. It
was to its place above the altar in the great Dominican church of Sta.
Maria Novella at Florence that the picture was carried in triumphal
procession; whilst the fact that a whole city should thus have turned
out to rejoice over the completion of a picture, proves "the widespread
sensibility of the Florentines to things of beauty, and shows the
sympathy which, emanating from the people, was destined to inspire and
brace the artist for his work" (Symonds: _Renaissance_, iii. 137).[15]
The history of Giotto is no less significant. It was for the walls of
the church of St. Francis at Assisi that his greatest work was done. It
was there that he at once pondered over the meaning of the Christian
faith (with what result is shown by Ruskin in _Fors Clavigera_ and
elsewhere), and learned the secret of giving the resemblance of the
objects of that faith in painting. Thus, then, we arrive at the second
source of interest in these old pictures of Florence--rude and foolish
as they sometimes seem. "Those were noble days for the painter, when
the whole belief of Christendom, grasped by his own faith, and firmly
rooted in the faith of the people round him, as yet unimpaired by alien
emanations from the world of classic culture, had to be set forth for
the first time in art. His work was then a Bible, a compendium of grave
divinity and human history, a book embracing all things needful for
the spiritual and civil life of man. He spoke to men who could not
read, for whom there were no printed pages, but whose hearts received
his teaching through the eye. Thus painting was not then what it is
now, a decoration of existence, but a potent and efficient agent in
the education of the race" (_ibid._ p. 143). The message which these
painters had to deliver was painted on the walls of churches or civic
build
|
lay hidden in a poor ship
like the Spanish brigand—brig—whatever you call it?’ she asked, her
curiosity as a woman dominating for a moment all other considerations
which might grow out of that yarn.
‘No,’ said I; ‘nor would I inquire. It is giving one’s self needless
trouble to dissect the fabric of a dream.’
‘Poor wretch! But how frightful to be in a ship commanded by a madman!
What object has he in telling you this secret?’
‘He wants me to help him recover the treasure;’ and I then related the
man’s proposals.
She gazed at me with so much alarm that I imagined her fear had rendered
her speechless.
‘You tell me,’ she cried, ‘that you have consented to sail with him to
this island of his in—in—the Pacific? Are you as mad as he is, Mr.
Dugdale? Do you forget that I look to you to protect me and help me to
return home?’
Her eyes sparkled; the colour mounted to her cheek, her bosom rose and
fell to the sudden gust of temper.
‘I am surprised that you do not see my motive,’ I exclaimed. ‘Of course
I feigned to fall in with his views. My desire is to get to Rio as soon
as possible, and ship with you thence for England.’
‘To Rio? But I’m not going to Rio!’ she cried. ‘The captain solemnly
promised to put me on board the first ship going home. Why did you not
insist upon his keeping his word?’ she exclaimed, drawing herself up to
her fullest stature and towering over me with a flashing stare.
‘He’ll not tranship us now,’ said I. ‘I’m like Caleb Williams. I have
his secret, and he’ll not lose sight of me.’
‘Oh, what miserable judgment!’ she exclaimed. ‘You are frightened of
him! But were he ten times madder than he is, I would _compel_ him to
keep his word. Rio indeed! He shall put us on board the first ship we
meet, and I’ll tell him so when I see him.’
‘You will do nothing of the kind,’ said I. ‘If you open your lips or
suffer your temper to come between me and any project I have formed, I
will wash my hands of all responsibility. I will not lift a finger to
help ourselves. He shall carry us whithersoever he pleases.’
‘How can you talk to me so heartlessly! I have no friend but you now,
and you are turning from me, and making me feel utterly alone.’
‘I am so much your friend,’ said I, ‘that I do not intend you shall
alienate me. My judgment is going to serve me better than yours in this
dilemma. I know exactly what I am about and what I intend, and you must
keep quiet and be obedient to my wishes.’
‘Oh, I should abhor you at any other time for talking to me like that!’
she exclaimed. ‘There was a time—— I shall _not_ go to Rio! He has
promised to put us on board a ship going home.’
‘Miss Temple, you talk intemperately. You are in an unreasonable mood,
and I will not converse with you. We will resume the subject by-and-by;’
and I half turned, as though to walk off, humming an air betwixt my
teeth.
She grasped my arm. ‘You must not leave me. I have been long enough
alone. I believe you will drive me as crazy as the captain.’
‘I will see you safely to England first,’ said I, ‘and then you shall
fall crazy.’
The tears suddenly gushed into her eyes, and she turned seawards to hide
her face. I moved away, but before I had measured half-a-dozen paces,
her hand was again upon my arm.
‘I am sorry,’ she said softly, hanging her stately head, ‘if I have said
anything to vex you.’
‘I desire but one end,’ said I, ‘and that is your safety. To ensure it
needs but a little exercise of tact on your part and a resolution to
trust me.’
‘I do trust you,’ she exclaimed; ‘but am I wholly wanting in brains,
that you will not suffer me to offer an opinion, nay, even to express a
regret?’
‘You would be able to do nothing with this mad sailor,’ said I. ‘Rio is
within a fortnight’s sail, and our safety depends upon our getting
there.’
‘A fortnight!’ she cried—‘another fortnight of this horrible ship!’
‘Yes; but England is a long way off from where we are. Were you to get
on board another vessel, you might be fully as uncomfortable as you are
here, unless she should prove a passenger craft with ladies in her. A
fortnight more or less could not signify. At Rio you will be able to
purchase such articles as you immediately need, and there will be a
choice of ships to carry us home in comfort.’
‘I believe you are right,’ said she, after a little pause, with
something of timidity in the lift of her eyes to my face. ‘I was shocked
and made irritable by alarm. I am sorry, Mr. Dugdale.’
The answer I was about to make was checked by Wilkins calling to us from
the companion way that supper was ready.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE FORM OF AGREEMENT
The captain did not arrive, and we had the table to ourselves. Miss
Temple was subdued, and her glances almost wistful. It gave me but
little pleasure to humble her, or in any way to triumph over her; but I
had made up my mind to be master whilst we were together, and not to
spare her feelings in my effort to assert myself; and I may add here
that I had determined, if it pleased God to preserve us, to make this
noble and beautiful woman my wife. For I was now loving her, but so
secretly, that my love was scarce like a passion even to my own reason;
and the conclusion I had formed was that the only road to her heart lay
behind the armour of her pride, which must be broken down and demolished
if ever I was to gain her affection. And sure I was of this too; that
she was of that kind of women who need to be bowed by a strong hand into
a submissive posture before they can be won.
We spoke very little; the captain’s cabin was not far off, and the
knowledge of his being in it held us very taciturn. However, we made
amends for our silence after we had supped and regained the deck. She
was now to be easily convinced that our best chance of escaping from
this barque was for me to fool the captain to the top of his bent, that
he might carry us to Rio; and before long she was even talking
cheerfully of our prospects, asking me in a half-laughing way how we
were to manage for money when we arrived at Rio, whether I had any
friends there, and so on.
‘There are my jewels,’ she said; ‘but I should be very sorry to part
with them.’
‘There will be no need to do that,’ said I. ‘I have a few bank-notes in
my pocket which I think may suffice. There is an English consul, I
suppose, at Rio, and he will advise us.’
Talk of this kind heartened her wonderfully. It gave her something happy
and hopeful to think about; in fact, before we went below she told me
that she now preferred the idea of proceeding to Rio to the old scheme
of going aboard a ship bound to England.
‘I shall be able to purchase a few comforts,’ she said; ‘whereas I might
be transferred to some horrid little vessel that would occupy weeks in
crawling along the sea, and in all that time I should be as badly off as
I am now. Do the ladies in South America dress picturesquely, do you
know? I should like to be romantically attired on my arrival home. How
my dearest mother would stare! What colour a long Spanish veil and a
dress of singular fashion would give to my story of our adventures.’
And so she talked.
It was a very calm and lovely night, with the moon, a few days old,
going down in the west. The breeze held everything silent aloft; a
murmur as of the raining of a fountain floated up from alongside as the
white body of the little barque slipped through the darkling waters
brimming in a firm black line to the spangled sky of the horizon. The
captain had arrived on deck at eight, but he kept to the after-part of
the poop, nor once addressed us, often standing motionless for ten
minutes at a time, till he looked like some ebony statue at the rail
floating softly up and down against the stars to the delicate curtseying
of his little ship. I seemed to notice, however, yet without giving much
heed to the thing, an indisposition on the part of the watch on deck to
coil themselves away for their usual fine-weather naps. From time to
time, though dimly, there would steal aft a hum of voices from the black
shadow upon the deck past the galley. Once a man kindled a phosphorus
match to light his pipe, and a small group of faces showed to the flash
of the flame, so to speak, as it soared and sank to the fellow’s sucking
at it; but I found nothing in this to arrest my attention saving that I
recollect asking Miss Temple to notice the odd effect produced by the
coming out of those faces amid the dusk; for one saw _them_ only and no
other portion of the men’s bodies.
We walked to the companion to leave the deck. I scarcely knew whether or
not to call a good-night to the captain, so absorbed in thought did his
motionless posture express him. But as Miss Temple put her foot upon the
steps, he quietly cried out: ‘Are ye going to bed?’
‘Yes, captain,’ I answered, ‘and we wish you a very good-night.’
‘A minute!’ he sung out, and came to us. He seemed to peer into Miss
Temple’s face, that showed as a mere faint glimmer in the starlight, the
moon being then sunk, and addressing me, exclaimed in a voice but a
little above a whisper: ‘I suppose you have told the lady everything,
Mr. Dugdale?’
‘Yes,’ I answered; ‘my oath allowed for that, you know.’
‘Certainly,’ said he. ‘It’s a grand opportunity for money-getting, mem.
The brace of you know more than the wife of my own bosom has any
suspicion of. As God’s my Saviour, never once have I opened my lips to
Mrs. Braine about that there money.’
‘I had hoped you would have transferred me to a homeward-bound ship,’
said Miss Temple.
‘You don’t want to be separated from a sweetheart, do you?’ he
exclaimed.
This was a stroke to utterly silence her. I believe she had spoken from
no other motive than to finesse, that the captain might suppose her as
sincere in her belief of his story as I was; but this word _sweetheart_
was like a blast of lightning. What her face would have exhibited if
there had been light enough to see it by, I could only imagine.
‘It grows late, captain; good-night,’ said I, pitying her for the
confusion and disorder which I knew she would be under.
‘Have you been thinking over the tarms of that letter we were talking
about?’ said he.
‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I’ll pay your cabin a visit after breakfast and
write it out.’
‘Very well, sir. That and the agreement about the division of the money
too. I shall want to shift my hellum for Rio to-morrow.’
He left us, and we descended in silence, nor did Miss Temple speak a
word to me as we made our way to our gloomy deep-sunk quarters,
excepting to wish me good-night.
I slept well, and rose next morning at seven to get a bath in the head;
for, as in the Indiaman, so in this barque, and so, indeed, in most
ships in those days, there was a little pump fixed in the bows for
washing down the decks of the fore-part of the craft. It was a very gay
brilliant morning, a fresh breeze about a point before the starboard
beam, and the _Lady Blanche_ was moving through it at a meteoric pace
with her royals and gaff topsail in, and all else save the flying jib
abroad. The water was of a rich blue, and rolled in snow; the violet
shadows of swollen steamcoloured clouds swept over the rolling lines of
the ocean, and by their alternations of the sunshine made a very prism
of the vast, throbbing disc of the deep. About two miles astern was a
large schooner, staggering along on a westerly course, so close hauled
that she seemed to look into the very eye of the wind and plunging bow
under with a constant boiling of foam all about her head. By the time I
had taken my bath she was a mere chip of white on the windy blue over
our weather quarter.
There were a few sailors cleaning up about the decks, and as I passed
them on the road to the cabin, I could not fail to observe that they
eyed me with a degree of attention I had never before noticed in them.
Their looks were full of curiosity, with something almost of impudence
in the bold stare of one or two of them. What, I reflected, can this
signify but that the fellow Wilkins overheard everything that passed
between the captain and me, and has carried the news into the
forecastle? So much the better, I thought; for should the captain come
to guess that the men had his secret, the suspicion must harden him in
his insane resolve to carry the barque forthwith to Rio to get rid of
his crew.
When Miss Temple came out of her berth there was a momentary touch of
bashfulness and even of confusion in her manner; then a laughing
expression flashed into her eye. As we repaired to the cabin we
exchanged some commonplaces about the weather. She warmed up a little
when I spoke of the noble breeze and of the splendid pace of the barque,
and assured her that the most distant port in the world could never be
far off to people aboard such a clipper keel as this. The captain joined
us at the breakfast table. I thought he looked unusually haggard and
pale, appearing as a man might after a long spell of bitter mental
conflict. His eyes seemed preternaturally large, and of a duller and
deader black than my recollection found common in them. He seldom spoke
but to answer the idle conversational questions one or the other of us
put to him. I observed that he drank thirstily and ate but little, and
that he would occasionally rest his forehead upon his hand as though to
soothe a pain there. Yet lustreless as was his gaze, it was singularly
eager and devouring in its steadfastness. He had been on deck since four
o’clock, he told us, and had not closed his eyes during the previous
four hours of his watch below.
‘I get but little sleep now,’ said he with a long trembling sigh.
‘That schooner astern this morning,’ said I, ‘looked as if she were
bound somewhere Rio way.’
He responded with a dull nod of indifference.
‘Were you ever at Rio, Captain Braine?’ asked Miss Temple.
‘No, mem.’
‘I suppose I shall easily find a ship there to carry me home?’ said she.
He stared at her and then at me; and then said, looking at her again,
‘Don’t you mean to go along with him?’ indicating me with a sideways
jerk of the head.
Her eyes sought mine for counsel.
‘It will be a question for you and me to discuss, captain,’ said I.
‘With all due deference to Miss Temple, it may be you will come to think
that the presence of a lady could but encumber us in such a job as we
have in hand.’
‘Ay, but she has my secret!’ said he swiftly and warmly.
‘Your secret is mine, and my interests are hers—you know that!’ I
exclaimed.
‘What are the relations between you?’ he asked.
A blush overspread Miss Temple’s face and her eyes fell.
‘Ask me that question presently, captain,’ said I, laughing.
He continued to stare slowly at one or the other of us, but remained
silent.
Wilkins entered with a pot of coffee. I furtively but attentively
surveyed his expressionless veal-like countenance; but I might as well
have explored the sole of his foot for hints of what was passing in his
mind. He came and went quickly. Indeed, his practice of waiting
consisted merely in placing our meals upon the table, and then lingering
out upon the quarter-deck within hearing of the captain’s voice if he
was wanted.
Presently the skipper rose.
‘I’ve made out that document consarning shares,’ said he; ‘perhaps you
might now come with me and con-coct the letter you want me to sign.’
‘Very well,’ I answered; ‘Miss Temple is to witness your signature, and
you will allow her to accompany us?’
For answer he gave her one of his astonishing bows, and the three of us
went to his cabin. He opened the drawer that contained the chart of his
island, and produced a sheet of paper, very oddly scrawled over.
‘I made this up last evening,’ said he; ‘jest see if it’ll do, Mr.
Dugdale. If so, I’ll sign it, and ye can draw me up a copy for my own
keeping.’
‘Miss Temple will have to witness this too,’ said I, ‘so I’ll read it
aloud:
“Barque _Lady Blanche_.
At Sea (_such and such a date_).
I, John Braine, master of the barque _Lady Blanche_, do hereby agree
with Dugdale, Esquire, that in consideration of his serving
me as chief-officer for a voyage to an island situate in the South
Pacific Ocean, latitude 83° 16′ S. longitude 120° 3′ W., unnamed,
but bearing due south-west from Easter Island, distant ; I say
that in consideration of your helping me to navigate this ship to
that there island, and from there to Port Louis in the island of
Mauritius afterwards, the said John Braine do hereby undertake to
give and secure to the said Dugdale, Esquire, by this here
instrument as witnessed, one whole and full third of the money now
lying buried in the above-said island, whereof the amount, as by
calculation allowed, is in Spanish pieces from 180 to 200,000
pounds.
Witness my hand and seal.”’
It cost me a prodigious effort to keep my face whilst I read, almost
tragical as was the significance of this absurd document to Miss Temple
and myself, as forming a condition, so to speak, of the extraordinary
adventure fate had put us upon. I durst not look at her for fear of
bursting into a laugh. The man’s strange eyes were fixed upon me.
‘Nothing could be better,’ said I. ‘Now, sir, if you will kindly sign
it—and I will ask you, Miss Temple, to witness it.’
He turned to seat himself; the girl’s glance met mine; but heaven knows
there was no hint of merriment in _her_ face. She was colourless and
agitated, though I could perceive that she had a good grip of her
emotions. The captain signed his name with a great scratching noise of
his pen, then made way for Miss Temple, whose hand slightly trembled as
she attached her signature to the precious document. It was now my turn;
in a few minutes I had scribbled out a form of letter addressed to
myself guaranteeing me immunity from all legal perils which might follow
upon the captain’s piratical deviation from his voyage. This also he
signed, and Miss Temple afterwards put her name to it as a witness.
‘I’ll take copies of these,’ said I, ‘at noon, after helping you to work
out the sights.’
‘I beg pardon,’ he exclaimed, observing me to take a step towards the
door; ‘I should be glad to know the relations ’twixt you and this young
lady? It ain’t for inquisitiveness that I ask. She has my secret, sir;’
and he drew himself erect.
‘We were fellow-passengers,’ I answered with a side-look at the girl,
whose expression was one of disgust and distress.
‘There’s nothing close in that,’ said he: ‘I counted upon ye as being
sweethearts—that you was keeping company with her, and to be married
when the chance came, when I told you there was no objection to your
reporting my secret to her.’
‘We are sweethearts,’ I replied, smiling, and taking the girl’s hand;
‘and _when_ the chance comes along,’ I added, faintly accentuating the
‘when’ for _her_ ear only, ‘we shall be married, captain, and I shall
hope to see you dancing at our wedding and heartily enjoying the
entertainment, which, it will not need all my third share to furnish
forth.’
Miss Temple could not contain herself; she uttered a short hysteric
laugh.
‘Pity ye couldn’t have told me this at once,’ exclaimed the captain,
regarding me sternly; ‘but,’ he went on whilst his countenance slightly
relaxed, ‘there’s always sensitiveness in love-making whilst it keeps
young. I’m obliged to you, mem, for your visit.’
I opened the door and followed Miss Temple out.
‘I am of opinion that he is not so mad as he appears,’ said I.
She averted her flushed face somewhat haughtily. No matter, thought I;
it is a subject that will keep.
We got under the short awning on the poop and lounged away the morning
there. Her good breeding speedily came to her rescue, and our chat was
as easy, in a sense, as ever it could have been aboard the
Indiaman—easier, i’ faith, by a long chalk! though it concerned troubles
and anxieties which never could have occurred to us in the _Countess
Ida_. I observed that Mr. Lush frequently directed his eyes at me as he
paced the weather deck. To my accost he had satisfied himself with
returning a surly ‘marning,’ and we spoke no more. He seemed unable to
view me attentively enough to satisfy himself without growing offensive
by staring.
‘I hope that fellow,’ I whispered to Miss Temple, ‘may not thwart my Rio
programme. Yet I don’t see how he could do so. The barque wants a
chiefmate, so the captain contends. It is no falsehood; the need would
by all sailors be regarded as an imperative one. Still, I hate that
surly fellow without exactly knowing why.’
‘Do you notice how those men yonder are constantly looking this way?’
‘Yes. As I have explained to you, Master Eavesdropper Wilkins has
reported all he heard; and the Jacks understanding at last that their
skipper is a madman, are wondering what on earth is going to happen
next. They’ll be glad, you’ll find, to learn that we’re heading for Rio
when the course is changed. They’ll report the skipper as insane, and
end our difficulties out of hand for us.’
‘I hope so indeed!’ she sighed.
Well, for the rest of the day nothing happened worth relating. I took an
observation with the captain, worked it out in his cabin, and made
draughts of the two extraordinary documents. When we had calculated our
situation, he went on deck, and by a tell-tale compass in his cabin I
perceived that he had changed the barque’s course. Simultaneously with
this, I heard the men bracing the yards more forward, and the heel of
the barque slightly sharpened to the increased lateral pressure of the
fresh breeze upon her canvas. I hastened on deck when I had done my
copying to observe the crew’s deportment; but in the manner of the few
men who were about I witnessed nothing to lead me to suppose that they
made anything of this sudden change of course.
When I told Miss Temple that we were now heading as close as the wind
would let us lie for the South American port she instantly grew
animated; her eyes brightened, a look of hope and pleasure entered her
face, and her voice was full of cheerfulness. The captain, on the other
hand, grew gloomier as the day advanced. During his watch on deck from
twelve to four he paced the planks without any intermission that I was
sensible of, walking nearly always in the same posture, with his hands
clasped behind him and his head bowed; and with his long black hair,
yellow face, and blue gills he needed nothing but the dress of a monk to
look one, rehearsing his part for the cloisters.
Some dinner was taken to him on deck; but I saw Wilkins afterwards carry
the dishes forward, and the food appeared to me untouched. At the supper
hour he came to the table, but neither ate nor drank. During the greater
part of the sitting he kept turning his eyes first on one and then on
the other of us with a dim sort of strained interrogative expression in
his stare, as though he was struggling with some degree of suffering to
dislodge an imagination or idea out of a remote secret cell of his brain
and bring it forward into the clear light of his understanding. He
seemed to find Miss Temple’s presence a restraint. Sometimes, after
eyeing me he’d start as if about to speak, but instantly check himself
with a glance at the girl, whilst his face would darken to some mood of
irritation and impatience.
Another gloriously fine night followed sunset that day, with a brighter
and longerliving moon, and a gushing of breeze that melted through, and
through one with the delicious coolness that it brushed off the waters
and gathered from the dew. The sea throbbed in flashings of foam, which
shone with the radiance of moon-touched snow mingled with spangles of
the gold and emerald light of the phosphor. There was a pleasant roaring
and hissing noise off the weather bow, with merry whistlings aloft,
where the fullthroated canvas soaring to the main-topgallant yard leaned
in pale spaces against the stars, with frequent sweeps of the mastheads
to the frisky plungings of the clipper hull upon the head seas.
The carpenter was in charge of the deck. He was standing at the rail
abreast of the wheel, when it occurred to me to accost him, that I might
gather from his replies what notions had been put into his head by the
captain having changed the course. I had Miss Temple on my arm, for the
deck was hardly safe for her without some such support. We went to the
binnacle, and I took a peep at the card, then crossed over to the
carpenter.
‘Good-evening, Mr. Lush. A rattling breeze this! Since Rio is our
destination, such a draught as this should put us in the way of making
it smartly, off her course as the barque is.’
‘I suppose you know what we’re a-going there for?’ he answered in a
gruff tone of voice, that left me in doubt as to whether he intended a
question or not.
‘You are second mate, and of course are in the captain’s confidence.
What should I know that you don’t?’
‘Ah, what?’ he exclaimed, in a voice like a dog’s growl.
Miss Temple slightly pressed my arm, as though she would have me walk
away.
‘A vessel like this wants a chief mate,’ said I, ‘some one who knows
what to do with the sun and stars.’
‘Oh, then, you’re acquainted with the reason why we’re going to Rio?’
said he in a tone of such impudent sarcasm, that without another word I
rounded on my heel and led Miss Temple forward.
‘The brute!’ I exclaimed. ‘But I am rightly served. I have no business
to address the surly illiterate baboon.’
‘You know that _he_ knows you have learnt the captain’s motives, if it
be true, as you suppose, that Wilkins has repeated to the men what he
overheard; why, then, do you feign an ignorance that can only excite the
creature’s suspicions?’
‘Suspicions of what?’
‘That you are acting a double part: with the captain for the sake of his
buried money, and with the crew for the sake of your safety.’
‘You put it shrewdly, and I am fairly hit,’ said I. ‘I wanted to get at
the fellow’s mind, if he has any; it did not occur to me for the moment
that he would know through Wilkins of what had passed in the cabin. That
is to say if he _does_ know; for after all, Wilkins may not have
overheard everything, and for aught we can tell he may not have repeated
a syllable of the little that he managed to collect through that
bulkhead. No matter, Miss Temple. A fortnight more, please God, and we
shall be able to write the word finis to this passage of our
adventures.’
‘I shall scarcely know myself again,’ she exclaimed cheerfully, whilst
she extended her disengaged white hand to the sheen in the air flowing
from the stars and scar of moon, ‘when I put my rings on once more. What
an experience! How improbable, and how consistently possible and
horribly absolute!’
And then she asked me how far it was from Rio to London; and we went on
chatting and pacing, sometimes coming to a stand at the side to watch
some sweep of foaming water roaring off from the blow of the lee bow
into the weltering gloom until five bells were struck—half-past ten. She
then said she felt chilly, and I took her below. It was a little early
for bed, however; besides, the excitement of the day still lingered—the
signing and witnessing of the queer documents: the captain’s insane
dream of a treasure-quest, mad, as we deemed it, at all events: the
sense of our speeding now towards a port whence we should be able to
take ship and proceed comfortably to England.
I went to the cuddy door and called for Wilkins, and on his arrival told
him to put a bottle of the wine that had been brought from the wreck on
the table along with some biscuit, and thus furnished, Miss Temple and I
managed to kill very nearly another hour. She removed her hat; the
lamplight streamed fair upon the marble-like beauty of her face, upon
her large, dark, soft, and glowing eyes, upon her rich neglected
abundant hair.
‘Do you remember that night,’ I said, ‘in the English Channel, when
after the collision with the Frenchman you came to where I stood and
asked me to explain what had happened?’
‘I would rather not remember anything that passed between us on board
the Indiaman, Mr. Dugdale,’ she replied with a droop of her long lashes
as she spoke.
I gazed at her earnestly; a single glance would have enabled her to
witness something of passion in my regard at that instant: I bit my lip
to check what my instincts assured me would then have been said all too
soon, and looking at my watch exclaimed: ‘Hard upon half-past eleven.’
She rose, and together we descended to our inhospitable steerage
quarters.
CHAPTER XXXII
A TRAGEDY
How long it was before I fell asleep I cannot say. The humming of the
wake racing away close outside was noisy; the light cargo in the
steerage creaked and strained, and the thump of the rudder was frequent,
and sometimes startling. I was aroused by a continuous knocking on the
bulkhead. It was pitch-dark, despite a small sliding dance of stars in
the porthole glass. I thought the knocking was upon my door, and cried
out, ‘What is it?’ It did not cease; and gathering by this time that it
proceeded from the bulkhead that divided the cabins, I jumped out of my
bunk and beat upon the boards to let Miss Temple know I heard her.
I called; but though I caught her voice, I could not distinguish her
utterance. I had turned in partially clothed, and groping my way to the
door, stepped forth and knocked upon her cabin. The handle was touched
and I was sensible that the girl’s door was ajar.
‘Are you there, Mr. Dugdale?’
‘Yes. What is the matter?’
‘Did not you hear a pistol-shot?’
‘No,’ I cried.
‘I am certain a firearm has been discharged,’ she exclaimed.
‘Stay a bit,’ said I. ‘I will see if anything is wrong, and let you
know.’
After some groping, I succeeded in lighting the candle in my lantern;
and then slipping on my shoes, I made for the hatch ladder, which I was
able to see by leaving my cabin door open. I entered the cuddy and
listened. The lamp had been extinguished; but a sort of spectral
illumination of stars and white water came sifting through the skylight
and the port-holes and the little windows in the cuddy front, and I was
able to determine the outline of objects. All was right in this
interior, so far as I could tell. I listened; but not so much as a
footfall sounded upon the upper deck, not a note of human voice or
movement of men forward. The barque was sweeping through the seas
bravely, and the atmosphere of the cuddy was vibratory with the resonant
cries of the wind up aloft.
I made for the cuddy door and looked out; nothing stirred on the
quarter-deck that ran pallid into the impenetrable shadow past the
waist. I returned to the companion steps, which I mounted, and stood in
the hatch a moment or two. There was nobody on the poop saving the man
at the helm. I stepped over to him and said, ‘Where’s the captain?’
‘He’s gone below,’ he answered; ‘he told me he wouldn’t be long.’
‘When did he leave the deck?’
‘Seven or eight minutes ago, belike.’
‘Did you hear a noise just now that resembled a pistol-shot?’ I
inquired.
‘No, sir,’ he answered. ‘But who’s to hear anything atop of this here
shindy of wind and water?’
‘That’s true,’ I exclaimed. ‘I doubt if the noise will have meant more
than a fall of something below. It is the lady who heard the sound, and
I’ve just stepped up to see what it might mean. It’s to be hoped the
captain won’t linger. This is not a breeze in which to leave a ship in
charge of her helmsman only.’
And indeed the little craft wanted too much watching on the part of the
fellow to suffer him to talk or to permit of my calling off his
attention from his duty. I resolved to wait, that there might be some
sort of lookout kept whilst the captain stayed below. The breeze had
freshened, I thought, since I left the deck; there was a dim windy look,
moreover, all away out to starboard; and the barque close hauled was
making the wind to come as hard again as it was blowing, in fact,
through her thrusting, plunging, nimble manner of looking up into it.
The mainsail is too much for her, thought I; it should be furled. There
is a staysail or two too many, also; and that top-gallant sail will have
to come in anon, if the look of the sky out yonder means what it
threatens.
Five minutes passed, but the captain did not make his appearance. The
sound that Miss Temple had heard was beginning to work an ugly fancy in
my mind. I stepped aft to the wheel.
‘Did the captain tell you why he was going below?’
‘No, sir,’ was the answer. ‘He’d been standing for about a quarter of an
hour stock still; then he comes soddenly in a sort o’ run to the
binnacle, takes a look at the card, and says: “Keep her as she goes;
nothing off: see to it! I shan’t be long.” That was all.’
At that instant the wind breezed up in a gust that came in a long howl
over the weather rail, and the little vessel bowed down to it till the
smother alongside looked to be up to the covering-board.
‘No use waiting for the captain,’ said I, made irritable by anxiety; ‘we
shall have the masts out of her if we don’t mind our eye;’ and running
forward, I shouted at the top of my voice: ‘Lay aft
|
umbing effects of slavery and the rebellion. The
rebellion, sealing up her railroads and extinguishing her down-river
trade, had given her a bad set back. But she was already fast picking
up the broken threads of her commerce, and was again preparing to
contend with Chicago for the palm of supremacy. Seated on the
Mississippi, with a vast river trade up and down, and an immense
region back of her, her geographical position could scarcely be
surpassed, and no doubt she has a grand and noble future before her.
Her levees, we found, thronged with steamers, some up for New Orleans
1,200 miles south; others for Fort Benton 3,100 miles north and west.
Her population already exceeded a quarter of a million. Her suburbs
were steadily filling up, in spite of numerous sinkholes in the
limestone formation there. Her streets were already well gridironed
with horse-railroads. Her facilities for business were large and
increasing. And with her vast system of rivers, north to the British
Dominion and south to the gulf, and her rapidly developing back
country--even to the Rocky Mountains and New Mexico--nature seems to
have destined her to become the great and abiding metropolis of all
that region. Her vast bridge and tunnels were not yet begun, but she
was already prophesying great things for the future.
From St. Louis, three hundred miles through Missouri, to Leavenworth,
Kansas, you find a noble region, that needs only a live population to
make it a garden. It is mostly rich rolling prairie, but with more
timber and streams than in Illinois, and with limestone abounding
nearly everywhere. All along the route, it was plain to be seen,
Missouri had suffered sadly from slavery. Both in population and
business, in town and country, clearly "the trail of the serpent" had
been over her all. But the wave of immigration, now that slavery was
dead, had already reached her, and we found its healthful currents
everywhere overflowing her bottoms and prairies. The new-comers
seemed to be largely Yankee and German, almost everywhere. France
once so predominant here, was already supplanted by Germany, and the
Teuton bade fair to rule Missouri soon, even then. At Hermann, where
we stopped for dinner, a German Hebe tendered us excellent native
wine, and the culture of the grape, we learned, had already become a
leading industry of this section of the state. The sturdy Rhine-men,
as true to freedom as in the days of Tacitus, were already everywhere
planting vineyards, and in the near future were sure of handsome
returns from petty farms, that our old time "Pikes" and "Border
Ruffians" would have starved on. Throughout the ride, the Missouri or
Big-Muddy, as the Indians call it, was often in sight, a broad tawny
stream; and many of its bends and reaches were so beautiful, that it
hardly seemed to deserve that savage criticism of Bayard Taylor's, as
being "too lazy to wash itself." Its banks as a rule are higher and
better, than those of the Mississippi anywhere below Cairo, and its
bottom lands seemed unsurpassed in fertility.
Leavenworth, on the Missouri, where it takes a final bend north,
was still the entrepôt for New Mexico and the plains. Omaha had
already tapped the Colorado and Utah trade and travel, and has
since mainly absorbed them, by the completion of the Union Pacific
railroad. But Leavenworth still had a large trade and travel of her
own, as a point of departure for New Mexico and the Plains, and
seemed destined to maintain it. Only a decade or so before, she was
without a house or inhabitant; but now she claimed thirty-thousand
people, and was rapidly increasing. We found many handsome stores and
elegant residences everywhere going up. Her streets were fast being
graded and macadamized, and the guttering especially was most solid
and substantial. She had several daily papers already, with weekly
editions of a large circulation. Many of her stores were doing a
wholesale business of a million of dollars annually. A fine Catholic
church was being erected, which when completed promised to be the
chief ornament of the city. But the largest and showiest building
there then was a combined brewery and dance house, which augured
badly for the town. Off on the suburbs of the city, we passed a park
of wagons or "prairie-schooners," acres in extent, tangible evidence
that we had already struck the commerce of the Plains.
By Lawrence and Topeka, already towns of several thousand people,
over the historic plains of Kansas, we sped along up the valley of
the Kaw or Kansas to Waumega; and thence, as I have said, by stage to
Fort Riley. Junction City, just beyond Fort Riley, at the confluence
of the Republican and Smoky Hill rivers, we found to be a hamlet of
several hundred people, and already growing rapidly. It had been
projected, with the expectation that the railroad would bend north
here, and ascending the Republican go thence to Denver, which would
have made Junction the last station and grand depot for all New
Mexico and much of the Rocky Mountain region. But, as it had been
decided afterwards to keep on up the Smoky Hill instead, Junction had
missed of much of its importance. Its location, however, was good,
at the confluence thus of two rivers; and with its single street of
straggling houses, of all styles of architecture, and in every stage
of construction, it was a good specimen of a frontier town, in the
first year of its settlement.
The country as a whole, thus far through Kansas, much surpassed our
expectations. Not only were the broad bottoms of the Kaw everywhere
dotted with farms, but even the high rolling prairies beyond were
fast settling up. Of course, settlements grew more scattering the
farther we progressed westward; but they were always in sight and
everywhere rapidly increasing. Herds of horses and cattle grazed
along the bottoms, and grouse and sage-hens whirred up by the
roadside as we sped along. At one point, a brace of oxen, yoked
together, got upon the track, and our engine mangled the poor beasts
dreadfully before they escaped. The road, as yet, was poorly ditched,
and without fences on either side, so that horses and cattle strayed
across it quite at will. The wheat-crop had everywhere been fair,
and Indian corn was promising to be magnificent. Corn had looked
well, all through Ohio and Indiana, Illinois and Missouri; but in the
Kansas bottoms it was superb in its "embattled glory," and seemed to
be a great favorite with the farmers. Indeed, Kansas, both in soil
and climate, is a rare state, and well worth to freedom all the blood
and treasure she cost us. True she lacks timber; but so far she had
got along, and the weight of testimony seemed everywhere to be that
her growth of timber improved with the reclamation and settlement
of the country. The Indian was everywhere retiring before the pale
faces, and the autumnal fires ceasing with his departure, bushes and
trees soon appeared, and we heard repeated instances of springs even
breaking out, where none had been known before. As an offset to her
want of timber, coal had been discovered in many places, and all
through the valley of the Kaw, she has a cream-colored limestone in
the bluffs, that works up beautifully for building purposes. When
first quarried, it is so soft that a common hand-saw or chisel can
dress it into any shape desired; but exposure to the atmosphere soon
hardens it, and then it continues so. In appearance it resembles the
Milwaukee free-stone, that used to make Michigan Avenue, Chicago,
so handsome and stately, and as a building material will prove
immensely valuable through all Southern Kansas. At Junction City
it was being got out by machinery, and fashioned into blocks by
horsepower. A company controlled the business, and as they could
furnish this elegant stone at a much less cost than lumber or brick,
they were anticipating very handsome profits.
The scenery of Kansas possesses many points of interest, but as a
whole lacks grandeur and sublimity. The view from Prospect Ridge,
back of Leavenworth, up and down the Missouri, is good; but the
landscape from Indian Point, near Junction City, up the Smoky Hill,
has more scope and variety, and was the finest we saw. Here, and
at other points, are some superb specimens of river terraces. We
counted four and five separate "benches," as they call them there,
or terraces, in many places, and the ancient water-marks of past
geologic ages seemed very evident. The rounded appearance of the
country generally, cropping out here and there into rough and
misshapen ridges, indicated pretty clearly the former water-line, and
we often interested ourselves in tracing it for miles.
Kansas, of course, abounds in enterprise and thrift. Saved to freedom
by Sharpe's rifles and the Bible, she invested largely in the
school-house and the church, and already reaps her fit reward. Her
Yankees whittle away just as cutely as they used to in New England,
and her Western men spread themselves hugely as elsewhere. Since the
war, she had received quite a large accession of population from our
ex-officers and soldiers. We found specimens of the Boys in Blue
scattered almost everywhere, and usually they were doing well. A fine
_esprit du corps_ animated them, and will keep them knit together
for the future. At various points we found them just "squatted"
on a quarter-section, and with the very rudest surroundings, but
ever plucky and hopeful. At Junction we met a late Paymaster, U. S.
Vol's., who was half-owner of the chief grocery and liquor-store,
as well as partner in a stone-quarry, and was about establishing a
National Bank. He was a man of spirit and enterprise, and seemed to
have enough surplus energy left for several more employments.
At Leavenworth, up at the old Fort, we saw our first Indians--a
party of Delawares. They consisted of Fall-Leaf, war-chief of the
Delawares, his nephew General Jackson, and a handful of other braves.
They were dressed in the usual rough costume of the border, but with
an eagle-feather or two in their broad-brimmed sombreros trailing
in the wind. Fall-Leaf was a noble specimen of the Indian in a
half-civilized state. He was a brawny, athletic, powerful fellow,
five feet eleven inches high, weighed one hundred and ninety-six
pounds, and was fifty-five years old. A perfect mass of bone and
muscle, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, his frame was a
sight to look upon--especially the massive splendor of his neck and
chest. A Hercules of the Plains, we could well believe the stories
told of his great strength and powers of endurance. General Jackson
was a lithe, light-built man, about thirty-six years of age, and in
physique almost the opposite of his brawny uncle. Three of them had
just been engaged as guides to a military expedition about leaving
for the Indian country, and a fourth was going along as interpreter.
Fall-Leaf had long served the government, with marked fidelity, as
guide on the Plains and in the far Indian country, and received one
hundred and fifty dollars per month and rations when absent on such
duty. He was familiar with the whole country west, as far as the
Rocky Mountains, and southward to New Mexico, and was reputed as
invaluable in his way. He told me the Delawares numbered about a
thousand souls yet, and had stood at those figures for several years.
They occupy a Reservation of several thousand acres on the Missouri
just below Leavenworth, and are engaged generally in farming and
stock-raising. They have a church, pretty generally attended, and a
good school, well-patronized. He said his people were fully impressed
with the importance of education and religion, and generally there
was an earnest desire among them to have their children learn all
"Pale-Face ways." He said he took a drink of "fire-water" himself
occasionally, on cold or wet days, and rather liked it; but that,
as a rule, drunkenness was on the decrease among the Delawares, and
he was glad of it. He had a wife and eight children, and said they
allowed "only one wife at a time in his tribe." He said he was born
far away toward the rising sun, on a river among the mountains; and
when I showed him a map, he immediately pointed out the head-waters
of the Delaware. When I told him I had just come from there, and that
my "wigwam" stood upon its banks, he seemed greatly interested. The
first steamboat he ever saw, was many years before at St. Louis, and
he thought it "Very good," because "It went itself! Puff! Puff! No
paddle!" His first locomotive, was quite recently at Leavenworth, and
he thought it "Much good! Went whiz! Beat buffalo or pony!" Of the
telegraph, he said, "I no understand; but very much good! Heap swift!
Like arrow or bullet between wide places; only heap better!"
He said, the Delawares believed in the Great Manitou, who made
earth, and sky, and everything; but many did not believe in the Evil
Manitou. He himself seemed to be a pretty good Universalist. He
thought God "very much good," and couldn't imagine how any lesser
being could interfere with Him. "Perhaps, Evil Manitou somewhere; but
Fall-Leaf know only Good Manitou." He admitted some of his people
believed in spirits; but he himself had never seen any, and was
skeptical on the whole subject. Some medicine-men, he said, claimed
to have seen them, and to be able to control them; but he thought the
whole thing "a heap humbug."
Fall-Leaf, as I have said, was then War Chief of the Delawares.
In his time he had been quite a noted warrior, and was proud of
his reputation for bravery and prowess. His last fight against the
Plains Indians had been about two years before, when he covered the
retreat of a squad of infantry, from a body of mounted Cheyennes
and Arrapahoes, and brought them all safely off. His last fight at
the head of the Delawares had been some ten years before, when with
less than fifty warriors he encountered and fought over two hundred
Pawnees, and whipped them well. Altogether, he supposed, he had
killed and scalped two or three hundred Indians, in his time; but
never a pale-face. He was a dignified and quiet enough looking Red
Skin to talk to through an interpreter, and occasionally would grunt
out a little broken English himself; but when roused, and with the
fury of battle upon him, no doubt he would be an ugly customer to
deal with. His face was full of smothered force and fire, of latent
power and fierceness, like a tamed tiger's; and notwithstanding
his peaceful demeanor, he all the while suggested that a single
war-whoop, or a scalping-knife flashing through the air, would
speedily transform the gentle Fall-Leaf into a hideous savage again.
Beyond Topeka we passed St. Mary's, a Catholic Mission among the
Pottawotamies. These Indians had a Reservation there then thirty
miles square, of as fine land as there was in Kansas. Stock-raising
seemed to be their chief occupation, though they had some fields well
fenced, and their corn crops were looking well. They lived in one-story
log-cabins, and by dint of years of hard work the missionaries had
succeeded in reducing them to a sort of semi-civilization; but the
aborigine survived still, and cropped out fearfully everywhere. It was
an anomaly and an anachronism to see them driving teams and threshing
grain; and they themselves seemed to confess it by their awkwardness.
Beyond Manhattanville we met _en route_ a large party of them--braves,
squaws and papooses--returning from a Buffalo hunt on the Plains.
Some were in wagons with their spoils of buffalo meat and robes; but
the majority went careering along on horseback. Most of them were in
semi-civilized costume, not much rougher than an average borderer,
though their head-gear usually ran much to feather. A few of their
young squaws were decidedly pretty and piquant, and, as they ambled by
on their gaily-caparisoned ponies, created quite a sensation among us;
but the older ones were hideous looking hags.
In all this part of Kansas, the Indian had already had his day, and
everywhere was being fast eliminated. The valleys of the Kaw and its
two chief tributaries, the Republican and Smoky Hill, had already
heard the whistle of the white man's locomotive, and the whole region
there was beginning to shake with the tread of the onward march of
civilization. As "Bleeding Kansas," she had had her dark days; but
these, happily, were past, and the tide wave of eastern immigration
was now surging and swelling all up and down her borders. We met
cheery voices and friendly hands at every stage of progress; and
could not but bid Kansas a hearty God-speed as we journeyed on.
CHAPTER II.
FROM THE KANSAS TO THE PLATTE.
It was the middle of August, before I was ready to leave Fort Riley;
and now a word about my _compagnons du voyage_. These were two, Mr.
J. D. L. of Boston, my well-tried clerk and friend; and Dr. B. E. M.
of New York, then recently Ass't. Editor ---- Magazine. Mr. L. had
been with me for several years in the field and at post; was active,
intelligent, alert; and was as capital a shot, as he was rare a
penman. Dr. M. I knew but slightly; but he came well-recommended, as
a _literateur_ and gentleman, and I was glad to have his company. He
had been considerable of a traveller in Europe, and was now desirous
of crossing the Continent to San Francisco, whence he might go over
to Japan and China. Another gentleman had also talked much of joining
us; but his heart failed him at the last hour, and he preceded us to
California, _via_ the Isthmus.
My inspections at Leavenworth and Riley being completed, we left
Fort Riley just after sunrise Aug. 16th, and soon were fairly afloat
on the Plains, and off for the Pacific. Hitherto the railroad had
still served to connect us with the East. But now we bade good-bye
to cars and locomotives, and did not see them again until we heard
their tramp and whistle two thousand miles away, in the cañon of the
Columbia. "Afloat," I think, is the only right word for the Plains;
because the first impression they give you is that of the sea, so
vast is their extent, and even the wagons that cross them--huge,
lumbering, fore-and-aft vehicles, with from eight to ten yoke of oxen
each--in border parlance are called "Prairie-Schooners."
My orders were to proceed from Fort Riley on the Kaw or Kansas, to
Fort Kearney on the Platte; and, as the shortest and most direct
route, we were now off, across the country, in execution of them. Our
route lay northwest across the high "divide" between the Kansas and
the Platte, through central Kansas; and as there was no stage-line
here, we had to go by ambulance. Neither was there any well-defined
road; but we were told that at Marysville, some sixty miles north,
we could strike the great Overland Route, from Atchison, Mo. and
afterwards travel westward by that. Our "outfit" consisted of one
ambulance for ourselves, one army-wagon for our escort of five
infantry-men, and another for baggage, forage, and rations. Our
friends at Riley knew little about the intervening country, except
that Indians were reported there; and as their cavalry was all out
scouting, could furnish only the infantry escort, as above. Even this
seemed small; but we were all well-armed ourselves; and what with our
repeating rifles and revolvers, few as we were, felt good for fifty
red skins or more, come as they would.
For the first seventy-five miles or so, we were seldom out of sight
of scattered ranches; but long before reaching Fort Kearney--some two
hundred and thirty miles from Riley--they had dwindled away to only
the occasional stage-stations, every ten or twelve miles or so apart.
Along the creeks and streams, we found farms rapidly springing up; but
the "divides" between these were generally barren and withered up.
Oftentimes we could find no water for ten or twelve miles, and wood
was even rarer. Of course, we "camped-out" during the whole trip, and
frequently had to carry our necessary fire-wood fifteen and twenty
miles. In the spring, all these "divides," as well as the bottoms, are
clothed with luxuriant verdure; but in summer, the rainless atmosphere
there sweeps over them, like a sirocco, and everything soon perishes.
At night, we found the air grew rapidly cold, and we shivered under our
blankets; but in the middle of the day, the sun fairly blazed from a
cloudless sky, and I have seldom felt its effects more severely. When
we struck the Overland Route, we found its roadway a mass of impalpable
dust, black and stifling. With the breeze dead-ahead, or athwart our
course, we got along very well; but when it chopped around behind us,
the black prairie soil rose in clouds, and our poor mules suffered
terribly. Two of them, indeed, died outright, from heat and dust,
before reaching the Platte, though we drove very carefully, seldom
averaging over thirty-five miles per day. Evidently this part of Kansas
must grow more trees, and thus secure more rain and moisture, before
these high "divides" or ridges between the Kansas and the Platte will
amount to much for farming purposes.
After a week of travelling like this, our first sight of the Platte,
with its broad and luxuriant bottoms waving with verdure, was
refreshing to the eye. Our jaded animals snuffed the water and grass
afar off, and of their own accord broke into a trot as we neared
them. We struck the river at Valley Ranche, a collection of a dozen
or so sod-houses, some seven or eight miles below Fort Kearney. The
Platte here is a mile or more wide, and looks like a noble stream;
but it is shallow and treacherous with shoals and quicksands, as
well as tainted with alkali, and altogether is about as thorough a
swindle as a river can well be. Its northern bank was still fringed
with cottonwoods, but its southern had scarcely a bush to break the
monotony. Ascending it to Fort Kearney, we found its broad bottoms
literally swarming with countless millions of Plains grasshoppers.
They really covered the ground, a moving army; they filled the
air, coming in all directions, their white wings twinkling like a
snow-squall. Egypt's plague of locusts could scarcely have been
worse, for they swept a broad tract of country clean of everything,
as they moved eastward. We found the settlers complaining of them
bitterly, as the greatest pests of the region, destroying all
vegetation and forbidding all attempts at farming, some seasons. Said
a butternut Missourian, in speaking of them: "The pesky varmints!
They eat up all my corn, and tobacco. And then when I cussed 'em for
it, they coolly sat on the Shanghai-fence thar, and squirted tobacco
juice at me!" But they have been almost as bad in other new states,
at first, and it was thought the advance of our line of settlements
would soon subdue or extirpate them.
On leaving Riley, we had anticipated some good shooting _en route_;
but game generally proved rare, or else quite shy. Prairie-chickens
or grouse abounded until we got beyond the settlements, when they
disappeared almost entirely. They are a timid bird, and hard to
approach on foot; but on horseback or in a wagon you may get close
upon them very easily. Feeding in the grass or reeds, in small flocks,
at the first sound they pop their heads up erect, as if inviting the
sportsman to crack away at them. This we did continually from an
ambulance or behind it, and seldom went into camp the first few days
without prairie-chickens enough for all. We expected to see deer and
buffalo, but were unable to catch sight of even one, being too far
east yet. As we approached the Platte, we saw a solitary antelope,
gazing at us from a distant bluff; but when we drew nearer he wheeled
about and dashed quickly out of sight among its sand-hills. Doves
and cow-birds appeared in quite considerable numbers when we struck
the Overland Route, and, of course, the crow or buzzard also--the
omnipresent scavenger of the Plains. Our first prairie-dogs turned up
on the Little Blue, just beyond Thompson's. Here was quite a village
of the little fellows, with their sentinels duly out; but as we came
nearer, the alarm was sounded, and soon "whisk" went a hundred tails,
as they plunged head downwards into their holes. A few noses peeped
cautiously out as we drove by; but the most of their dogships continued
_perdu_. Just above one hole a diminutive owl still stood guard in
the deepening twilight, and the settlers insisted that the old yarn
about the prairie-dog, the owl, and the rattlesnake being tenants in
common--all keeping house in one and the same hole--is really true.
We overheard our teamsters (all old Plainsmen) disputing about this
one night, around their camp-fire, as we lay awake; but their final
conclusion, and the weight of frontier testimony, seemed to be in favor
of this Happy Family.
Of Indians we heard a great deal, but saw none. Rumors of them
increased as we moved north and west; but, if about, they gave us a
wide berth. At Virginia Station, about half way, the station-keeper
reported the Pawnees in force on the Little Blue; and at Big Sandy
the last stage-driver through from Fort Kearny reported Fort Reno
taken, Fort Laramie besieged and Kearny itself in danger. He said,
one settler had already been lanced and killed on the Little Blue;
that the Pawnees there--six hundred lodges strong--were moody and
hostile; and, as our party was too small for effective resistance
advised our return. Further on we found ranches here and there
abandoned, with the crops left growing; and one day we descried a
solitary horseman in the distance galloping rapidly towards us, that
we were sure must be a red skin. But as he came nearer he proved to
be a settler's half-grown boy, who had been up the road several miles
helping a neighbor move. He, too, had heard "Big Injun" stories, but
said his people did not mind them much. These reports, at first,
I confess, were rather startling, as we had no idea of losing our
scalps; but as our safe advance day by day exploded one after another
of them, we soon became quite skeptical on the Indian question.
The chief effect was to increase our prudence and vigilance. We
looked well to our arms morning and evening, and seldom halted, even
briefly, without posting a guard. In due time we reached and passed
the valley of the Little Blue without seeing a Pawnee--they had all
gone off a fortnight before to the Republican and Smoky Hill to hunt
buffalo--and finally arrived at Fort Kearny in safety. There they
laughed at the idea of Indians south or east of them, but confessed
to ugly reports about Reno and Laramie. Ultimately, as we got farther
west, these also proved false; and our conclusion as to Big Injun
stories in general, was not very favorable.
The few settlers along the route consisted chiefly of New Englanders,
with a goodly sprinkling of Germans. They generally had milk and eggs
to sell, but seldom butter or vegetables. We camped one night on
Fancy Creek, near a Mr. Segrist's, where we got tomatoes and onions,
as well as eggs and milk; and as we had shot several prairie-chickens
during the day, we supped luxuriously. Our mess-kit was rather
a primitive affair, not much to speak of, and our cook quite a
worthless fellow, as it turned out; but L. developed a talent that
way very surprising, and so we got along comfortably. This Segrist
himself was quite a character in his way. A Pennsylvania Dutchman by
birth, he was bred in Indiana, but emigrated to Fancy Creek during
the Kansas troubles, to help save the territory to freedom. Squatting
on a quarter-section there, he first built himself a log-cabin, and
then subsequently enlarged and improved this by a "lean-to;" now
he had just completed a good two-story stone house, of magnesian
limestone, and aspired to luxury. He had flocks and herds well about
him; he was a hearty, cheery man, not afraid of hard work, nor a
spice of danger; and, it was plain to be seen, would soon be a rich
man, if he kept on. Of course, he was a Republican in politics, and
took the St. Louis _Westliche Post_.
On Wild-Cat Creek, the first day out from Fort Riley, we struck a Mr.
Silvers, who proved to be a minister of the United Brethren. He had
a half-section of land there, and his son-in-law as much more just
adjoining. They were both living in rude shanties put up by themselves,
but seemed happy and contented. During the war, he had sent one son
to the army, and when Price invaded Kansas he himself shouldered his
Plains rifle, and marched to the defence of Lawrence and Topeka. When
at home, he worked upon his farm; but he had a frontier circuit,
with preaching places a hundred miles in every direction, which took
him away most of the time. He seemed to be a veritable missionary,
looking up the lost sheep scattered along the Border, and we bade him
God-speed. His "gude wife" gave us a bowl of buttermilk fresh from the
churn, and we paid her in the latest eastern newspapers.
CHAPTER III.
UP THE PLATTE TO DENVER.
The Union Pacific Railroad had then just reached Fort Kearney from
Omaha, and was the sensation of the hour. With a large force of men,
it was being pushed rapidly up the north bank of the Platte; but as
our road lay up the south bank, we did not cross to see it. There was
little to prevent its rapid progress of a mile and even two miles
per day, as the Platte valley ascends gradually, and for railroad
purposes is almost everywhere practically a level. We now dismissed
our ambulance and escort, with instructions to return to Fort Riley,
and transferred ourselves, bag and baggage, to Holliday's Overland
Stages, which here connected with the railroad.
This stage-line was long one of the first enterprises of America,
and, as the forerunner of the railroad did its part well in carrying
civilization across the continent. It was then owned and controlled
by Mr. Ben Holliday, an enterprising Missourian, but then living in
New York. It had originally fallen into his hands for debt, but he
had since greatly enlarged and extended it. It then ran from Fort
Kearney to Denver, with branches to the mining regions; thence across
the Rocky Mountains to Salt Lake;[2] thence through Idaho to the
Columbia, with branches through Montana; extending in all, nearly
three thousand miles, employing six thousand horses and mules, and
more than three hundred coaches. He paid his general superintendent
ten thousand dollars per year; his division superintendents, half
that; and lesser employees proportionately. His hay, and grain, and
provisions, he had to haul hundreds of miles, distributing them along
the route, and his fuel frequently one hundred and fifty. To offset
all this, he carried the U. S. Mail, daily each way, and for this
service alone received over half a million of dollars per year from
the government. In addition, his passenger fares from Fort Kearney
to Denver were one hundred and fifty dollars; to Salt Lake, three
hundred; to Nevada, four hundred and fifty; to California, five
hundred; and to Idaho and Montana, about the same.
We found his stages to be our well-known Concord coaches, and they
quite surpassed our expectations, both as to comfort and to speed.
They were intended for nine inside--three seats full--and as many more
outside, as could be induced to get on. Their teams were either four or
six horses, depending on the roads, and the distance between stations.
The animals themselves were our standing wonder; no broken-down nags,
or half-starved Rosinantes, like our typical stage-horses east; but,
as a rule, they were fat and fiery, and would have done credit to a
horseman anywhere. Wiry, gamey, as if feeling their oats thoroughly,
they often went off from the stations at a full gallop; at the end of
a mile or so would settle down to a square steady trot; and this they
would usually keep up right along until they reached the next station.
These "stations" varied from ten to twelve miles apart, depending
on water and grass, and consisted of the rudest kind of a shanty or
sod-house ordinarily. Here we would find another team, ready harnessed,
prancing to be gone, and in fifteen minutes or so would be off on
the road again. Halts were made twice a day for meals, forty minutes
each, and with this exception we kept bowling ahead night and day. Our
meals were fair for the region; generally coffee, beef-steak or bacon,
potatoes, and saleratus-biscuit hot; but the prices--one dollar and one
dollar and a half per meal--seemed extortionate. In this way, we often
made ten and twelve miles per hour, while on the road; and seldom drove
less than one hundred, and one hundred and twenty-five miles, per day
and night.
We talked a good deal, or essayed to, with the drivers; but as a
rule, they were a taciturn species. Off the box they were loquacious
enough; but when mounted, with four or six in hand, they either
thought it unprofessional to talk, or else were absorbed too much
in their business. I remarked this to a Division Superintendent,
when he replied, "You bet! A talking driver is like a whistling girl
or crowing hen, always of no account!" They each had their drive
of fifty or sixty miles, up one day, and back the next, and to the
people along the route were important personages. Many we found were
from New Hampshire, and Western New York. Usually they were a roving
class; but when they once settled down to stage-driving, they seldom
left it permanently. There seemed to be a fascination about the
life, hard as it was, and we found many of these Jehus who had been
driving for years, and never expected to quit it. They were fond of
tobacco and whiskey, and rolled out ponderous oaths, when things did
not go to suit them; but as a rule, they were hearty and generous
fellows, and were doing the world good service. As bearers of the
U. S. Mail, they felt themselves kings of the road, and were seldom
loth to show it. "Clar the road! Git out of the way thar with your
bull-teams!" was a frequent salutation, when overtaking or meeting
wagon-trains; and if this was not complied with quickly, they made
little hesitation in running into the oxen, and swearing till all was
blue. I have a vivid recollection of one instance of the kind, when
we ran into an ox-team, and the justly exasperated teamster sent us
|
not my father. I consider his
presence an intrusion, a disgrace. You shall be unfrocked, sir, at the
first opportunity.
HARGRAVE (_marching up to Jane_). How dare you, sir! How dare you speak
so disrespectfully of your father!
JANE. Mr. Hargrave, I am not your son--although you certainly do look
familiar. (HARGRAVE _has floundered to the other end of the room and is
being cared for by_ DILL, _who mops his face with a big handkerchief_.)
JACK. I know, father, there's great suffering among the rich in this
hot weather. Do you think you'd still care to marry him, Jane?
JANE. I'm not sure, Jack. Your father looks very much like someone I
almost married before.
JACK. Ah, in that case you'd hardly care to repeat the experiment.
(_Waves to them._) Goodbye, Kathryn. Come soon and find his glasses.
KATHRYN. No, I'd rather read my letter.
JANE. I'm not a bad looker, Jack. And I have a new high hat which
reaches to Heaven.
JACK. No more than mine, Jane. It's from the Alps. (_Takes his arm._)
This way, father. You don't drink tea anyway. (_They go out._ JANE
_strolls off_.)
KATHRYN (_to_ DILL). Do you think, Dill, do you think that a man could
ever be a success in life, I mean a real success like you have, who
wore glasses?
DILL. In my capacity, Miss Kathryn, I have often wished I wore them.
There are so many things it's best not to see too clearly.
KATHRYN (_with a relieved sigh_). Oh, that's all right then. (_She
disappears._ GLORIA _and_ DILL _are left quite, quite alone_.)
DILL (_after a pause_). Your debut--and that about the Convolvulus--was
very sweet, my dear.
GLORIA. Thank you, Dill.
DILL. On the contrary, Mr. Hargrave's entrance failed to come up to
expectations.
GLORIA (_sternly_). No, Dill. But men never do, and Mr. Hargrave can
render us a distinct service later. You forget that we must be married.
DILL. Is it really to come true, love?
GLORIA. Of course, Dill. And now are you quite ready?
DILL. Quite, my love.
GLORIA. Are your hands clean?
DILL (_taking hers in his_). No man's could be cleaner.
GLORIA (_smoothing his hair_). I don't think you brushed your hair,
Dill.
DILL. It's a pleasure to hear you say that, dear. I have always noticed
that when men and women tire of each other they become very careless of
each other's appearance.
GLORIA. Then you do love me, Dill?
DILL. Oh, my love. (_Embraces her passionately._)
CURTAIN.
ACT II
_Scene_--PETER HARGRAVE'S _apartment. Door R. Exit L. Narrow hall U. R.
with door L. An old-fashioned bell rope overhead; double desk, two
chairs, and a Venus on the wall. Enter_ JACK _escorting_ HARGRAVE _by
the arm_.
JACK. If it were my own father, he could not have acted in a more
gentlemanly manner. Your every movement marks you the gentleman. You
have a gentleman's happy faculty for doing the wrong thing at the right
time. I have always feared that some day I should meet a gentleman, but
never, never suspected you. (_They come down stage together._) Dill
said his brother was a gentleman, but no one believes Dill, no one but
myself. (HARGRAVE _is doing his best to overlook_ JACK'S _frivolity_.)
HARGRAVE. I must confess that I am glad my brother has been found out.
What did you say his social standing was?
JACK (_using Venus as a mirror_). A butler, father. The standing is on
a par with petty theft.
HARGRAVE. A butler! A thief!
JACK. Yes, a menial, father, a form of man. It owes its origin to
menus.
HARGRAVE (_rubbing his hands_). I haven't told you before, my boy, and
an announcement of this kind should really proceed from the young lady
in question, but I believe that I am engaged.
JACK. Of course, you are, father. I'm attending to that.
HARGRAVE. Then Kathryn has told you?
JACK. Kathryn? This is the last straw, father. (_Pulls quill pen from
hat._) You shall be unfrocked, sir. (_Sits down at desk._) I'll write a
brief to the Archbishop to that effect. (_Does not write._) I had long
seen the advisability of such action, and had you been my real father
would have attended to it long ago. (HARGRAVE _glares at him_.) When
would you be unfrocked, father? In the morning? I'll respect any
preference you see fit to name. Well, some morning! Most any morning
will do. Letters have to travel like other people. They would not be
well read otherwise.
HARGRAVE (_at other end of the desk_). You shall go to jail, sir.
(_Writes furiously._) Or maybe there are many charitable organizations
only too glad to take you off my hands.
JACK. That remark was cowardly, Mr. Kent. You know very well that I am
not rich enough to go to jail, and that both influence and position are
required today for a jail career. (_Snatches pen away._) For the past
fortnight a jail has been my prime ambition. I have a genius for jails,
and I need not tell you, Mr. Kent, that I need rest and affection.
HARGRAVE. Hargrave, Jack, Hargrave! And until tonight I must be known
by no other name.
JACK. Please don't call me Jack, father. It sounds so unartificial. And
to think that I who have always perceived the immense superiority of a
number, should have been endowed with a monosyllable like that.
HARGRAVE. You had a number once, Jack.
JACK. A number! Is it true, father, or do my ears deceive me?
HARGRAVE (_piously_). I shall endeavor to spare your feelings as far as
possible. A young man tasting too soon of the bitter fruits of life is
apt to form a very wrong impression of this world of ours, and the
inhabitants above it.
JACK. Oh, people are above everything in this world, father, and in the
next too, I guess. But have I got a number?
HARGRAVE. How little you understand! You think that I refer to some
social distinction, some news of your misguided parents. I refer to
your real parents, Jack. An immoral longing I have never had.
JACK. Oh, everyone's as moral and immoral as he knows how to be,
father.
HARGRAVE (_expostulating_). Jack! Jack!
JACK. How often must I tell you not to call me that, sir. Even John
were better.
HARGRAVE (_devoutly_). It was no desire of mine to dig up the past, to
unearth that which belonged rightly to the dead. Your conduct, however,
has made the telling inevitable.
JACK. A telling speech, father. But tell me, have I got a number?
HARGRAVE (_bitterly_). You have, sir! You have! Allow me to tell you,
sir, that you once were, and I have no doubt still are, undutifully
registered at Crapsey Hall, Canterbury, under the charge of an
abominable brute by that name, as John--plain John, Disciple No. 1, in
an evil establishment known as a School for Socialism.
JACK (_embracing him wildly_). Father! I forgive you! Everything!
(_Kissing him._) Turn the other cheek, father. Oh, such luck, such
luck! I'll return at once. My fortune and future are assured now.
(_Tosses his cap into the air._) And to think that of all numbers, I
should have been No. 1.
HARGRAVE (_kindly_). You are surely an odd number, Jack.
JACK. Dear Crapsey! I wonder how he came to give me that particular
number, or if he knew that I thought of no one but myself?
HARGRAVE. I stole you from that heathen Hell--
JACK. Yes, yes, father.
HARGRAVE. And you were the first, last, and only little devil ever
entered there.
JACK (_crushed_). Oh!
HARGRAVE. So come, let's to more serious things. You said my brother
was getting married?
JACK. It's a man's malady, father.
HARGRAVE (_suddenly_). Jack! I have a thought! (_Steps forward._) Could
it be possible?
JACK. You slight yourself, father.
HARGRAVE (_meditating_). He is not marrying out of love. No! My brother
would never do that. He must be marrying out of his--
JACK. Out of his senses, father. All men do that.
HARGRAVE (_gyrating in circles_). The will! the will! Oh, he must know,
he must! The estate was left to him on condition that he was married,
and that's why he's marrying now. (_Pulls large pair of colored glasses
from his pocket._) The will! Show me the will!
JACK. I knew you hadn't lost them. The old rarely lose anything. They
have nothing to lose.
HARGRAVE (_teeming with excitement_). The will! the will!
JACK (_reaching in hip pocket, coat pocket, hip pocket_). Yes, father.
(_Repeats the experiment._) No, father. (_Subsides into chair._)
HARGRAVE. Oh, Jack! He has found it--we are lost.
JACK (_springing to his feet_). No, it's not lost. I remember, you
remember, it is under the tree. I left it in the Park this morning.
HARGRAVE. No!
JACK. Yes. (_Makes for door--returns deliberately._) You agree to
behave in my absence, father? I am very popular these days, and if Jane
or Kathryn should happen in--
HARGRAVE. Jane! Did you say Jane! I have a particular aversion to that
name, Jack. I trust that no woman named Jane bears any relationship to
Kathryn?
JACK. Only her mother.
HARGRAVE. Her mother? Her name, please! Even now I trace a resemblance,
a terrible resemblance. Tell me her name!
JACK. Her name's the same as Kathryn's, of course. I only ask you to
leave the whole family alone hereafter. They did not even know you
existed until this afternoon. You were a creation of my fancy and had
form, color and expression. And now you have ruined it all. All,
father, because you will not wear your glasses.
HARGRAVE. I don't know Kathryn's name. She never told me and I never
asked.
JACK. Kathryn's name is Kathryn Gibbs, her aunt's name is Gloria Gibbs,
and her mother's name is Jane Gibbs. Jane's a jewel, Gloria's an idiot,
and Kathryn's mine. Have you learned all that you want now, or must I
tell you more?
HARGRAVE (_in a most melancholy voice_). Jack, this is terrible. I had
never expected that. Jane Gibbs!
JACK. The name's no worse than Jack, father. Too bad Jane's not a
socialist, and could exchange for a number.
HARGRAVE. She is a socialist, Jack. Oh, a horrible, horrible socialist!
Did I never tell you of a woman? whose views of life--
JACK. Are not so antiquated as your own, sir? (_There comes a tinkle of
the bell, a second and a third._) But come, father, one should always
give in to the inevitable, and I have chosen Jane as your most likely
spouse.
HARGRAVE. I will not marry that woman! I will not! (JACK _throws open
the door and_ JANE _enters. She has on a gown of many colors and a hat
of many heights._)
JACK. Ah, Jane! So glad to see you! I've just been speaking to father
about that matter we discussed and he's quite interested already. Fact
is, father's always interested, though interesting he is not. I've
taken him to task about that blunder, though. Father's a bull for
blunders. In the morning I've suggested that he be unfrocked. You'll be
there of course? Great sight. (_Facing about._) Why don't you say
something, father! Or should fathers be seen and not heard? But perhaps
you desire an introduction. Jane--my father. My father--Jane Gibbs.
(_Each are about to shake hands, but_ JACK'S _body intervenes and he
rambles on_.) The family problem is the most important product of this
age, and ranks even higher than the servant question. Of course,
fathers were fashionable at one time, or I never should have had one.
It's a great fault, though, I admit.
JANE (_loosening wrap_). My faults are my fortune, Jack. Some people
are even famous for them.
JACK. Ravishing, Jane, ravishing! (_Plays with dress, avoiding_
HARGRAVE.) But perhaps I should go.
JANE. Probably you should go, Jack.
HARGRAVE. It is not problematical at all. It is obvious, sir. (JACK
_runs around the table_.) My son has a roving nature, Jane; it is
almost poetical. I've just advised an interview with a certain tree, a
rather poetical tree. He is a near poet, you know.
JACK (_bowing_). A minor poet only, not yet being of age.
JANE. Do not make fun of the minor poets, Jack. Leave that to the
newspapers. They foster them.
HARGRAVE (_apologetic_). My son had good intentions.
JACK. Heaven is filled with good intentions, father. (_To_ JANE.)
Chesterton says that poets are a trouble to their families. But then
Chesterton is always wrong. If the families of real poets are anything
like mine, the trouble rests with them.
JANE. Hurry, Jack, the tree may be gone. (_Crosses L. and seats herself
in the armchair._)
JACK. My interview will prove a very short one. (_Pulls out watch._)
Before long, father, I shall expect you to have arranged everything.
HARGRAVE (_in a conciliatory manner_). You said that her sister was an
idiot, did you not?
JACK. I did, father.
HARGRAVE (_writing on cuff_). It may prove of importance. (_Shuts door
on him. A whistling sound is heard as_ JACK _leisurely descends the
stairs_. HARGRAVE _returns to_ JANE. _Her taking the larger chair
upsets him very much. There is a moment's lapse in which they look at
each other._)
JANE. How very still it is here, Peter. I feel almost as if I were in
the country--in the country that we both knew so well before our hearts
had learned to beat.
HARGRAVE (_rising to the sentimentality of the occasion_). My heart is
bigger than its beat, Jane.
JANE. Ah, but you have been in this country many days, and you never
once wrote to tell me. We should have been glad to see you, all of us,
even Dill--that's my butler--but he's almost one of the family.
HARGRAVE (_scowling_). I came to America from a sense of duty, Jane,
and it has completely absorbed my time. I came to find my brother.
JANE. You never told me you had a brother. You left that for your son
to do.
HARGRAVE. Then Jack has told you.
JANE. Yes.
HARGRAVE. The fact is, Jane, that I have never spoken very much of my
brother to anyone. The poor fellow eloped just before I met you, and
our recollection of him has always been a sad one. Sadder still has
been my present duty to investigate and find that he is dead.
JANE (_ironically_). The Peter Kent that I knew had very little sense
of duty. Often I thought that he had none at all. But he was not the
Peter Hargrave that I see now. He was not a minister, and he did not
lie. He was not a hypocrite and he did not masquerade under a false
name to swindle his own brother, his living brother whom he pretended
to think dead.
HARGRAVE (_surprised and sullen_). It is not true.
JANE. It is true! Your son told me.
HARGRAVE. Jack is not my son. He is only mine by adoption.
JANE. He told me that too, but he also told me about your brother. You
met him this very morning in the Park.
HARGRAVE. I admit that. But till this very morning I believed my
brother was dead, as dead as my own father is today. And now how does
he show himself! As a man with whom one would care to associate? (_With
sudden inspiration._) No, as a thief, an unrepentant, petty thief; and
Jack will tell you that also.
JANE (_a little taken aback_). How did you happen to call him Jack,
Peter? I think John were infinitesimally nicer.
HARGRAVE. Jack would hardly have had a name at all if it hadn't been
for me. He might have had nothing but a number.
JANE. A number?
HARGRAVE. Yes, a number! I found him the very morning after you sailed,
Jane, a babe in arms, bound heart and soul to a School for Socialism.
JANE (_eagerly_). A School for Socialism! Where, Peter?
HARGRAVE (_complacently_). At Canterbury, under the direction of--
JANE (_beside herself with excitement_). Of a most eminent man, a
charming gentleman by the name of--
HARGRAVE. Under the direction of a wholly worthless, degraded rascal,
who has dogged my footsteps from that day to this, who has even
threatened my life, and who has been the one and only cause of my
assuming the name of Hargrave.
JANE. His name?
HARGRAVE. His name is Crapsey! And he has even followed me to this
country.
JANE. Oh! (_Sinks into chair._)
HARGRAVE. When I stole him from that pernicious place, his sole mark of
identification was John, plain John, Disciple No. 1, in Crapsey's
School for Socialism. (_Bell rings overhead._)
JANE. You stole him, Peter, and your act was as free to censure as any
committed by your brother.
HARGRAVE. Ssh!
JANE. I won't be still. I want to tell you right now.
HARGRAVE (_terrified_). There's someone at the door.
JANE. I don't care. They can hear too if they want to. (_Gets up._)
HARGRAVE. Consider my position, Jane. I couldn't really... I couldn't
have a woman in my rooms. There, there, now! (_Takes her arm._) You are
all flushed--and the rouge is beginning to come off. (JANE _instantly
subsides_.) This is my son's room. You may rest here for a while... or
at least until my visitors have gone. (_Bowing complacently._) Love
lingers in the spring and doubtless they are only some happy couple
tasting for the first time that desire for the fruits of marriage which
is the divine purport of our youth. (_Shuts door securely on her. Sighs
with relief and wipes his glasses carefully. Then after a moment's
conflict with his vanity, returns and places them on the table. This
done he tiptoes to the door and apparently observing but one person,
shouts down the stairs._) Come in, sir! (DILL'S _head appears
immediately through the opening, quite startling_ HARGRAVE _who
retreats before it_. DILL _still wears knickerbockers and a wondrous
black cape falls from his massive shoulders. On second appearance he is
followed by_ GLORIA, _dressed in her very best and carrying a large
colored satchel. She is somewhat out of sorts at the delay and is
coaxed and fondled by_ DILL.)
HARGRAVE (_bowing_). Ah, two strolling minstrels, I perceive.
DILL (_punctiliously_). No, sir. No, sir. We understood that you were a
minister, sir.
HARGRAVE (_his hands clasped behind his back_). My heart and home are
ever at the disposal of my flock.
GLORIA. (_motioning_ DILL _to be still_). You'll excuse the nature of
our visit, sir, but you see my husband (_blushes a little_)--or rather
I should have said the man who is to be my husband--
DILL (_to_ GLORIA). Both, my love, both.
GLORIA (_bluntly_). There was no time to be lost and we must get
married.
HARGRAVE. Ah, love is a tender thing, and her call is always urgent.
DILL. I overheard your son observe that you are to be unfrocked,
sir--and so we just thought we'd take you while there was still time.
(_Aside._) There's only one time for marriage, and that's when the lady
gives her consent.
HARGRAVE (_now scowling and suspicious_). My son?
GLORIA. Dillingham, you are always rendering the most unpleasant
surprises. (_At mention of his brother's name_, HARGRAVE _stands
stupefied, then with a fleeting glance over his shoulder, rushes back
to the table and adjusts his glasses_.) Perhaps Mr. Hargrave does not
care to acknowledge that he has a son, and what you said about being
unfrocked was ungentlemanly. (HARGRAVE _glares at_ DILL _and stations
himself in front of_ JANE'S _door_.)
HARGRAVE (_trembling with emotion_). Do I understand, sir, that you
trespass upon my hearth entertaining visions of matrimony? (DILL _and_
GLORIA _are stupefied by_ HARGRAVE'S _peculiar behavior_.)
DILL (_very sweetly_). That's it, sir.
HARGRAVE. Then I take pleasure to inform you, sir, that it cannot be
done.
DILL. But it must be done, sir. I have made a careful canvass of the
ministry, and I find them all to be extinct at present, sir. They're
like the birds and butterflies, sir, and are forever migrating at this
season of the year. You're the only one that hasn't wings at present,
sir.
GLORIA. Be quiet, Dill. It's love that makes the world go around, Mr.
Hargrave.
HARGRAVE. It's love that makes the world stand still, I say. Besides,
in this country at least marriage is illegal. The Constitution
expressly provides that no man shall be deprived of the right of
health, happiness, and the pursuit of freedom.
GLORIA. That's why we are going to change the Constitution, Mr.
Hargrave.
HARGRAVE. Anyway there's no room here. A correct marriage requires
space for tears and relatives.
DILL (_in the corner_). I think we might try it here, sir.
HARGRAVE (_superciliously_). I am not in favor of trial marriages.
Marriage itself is responsible for the alarming decrease in the
birth-rate so prevalent throughout the world.
GLORIA (_sweetly_). I think Mr. Hargrave is superstitious, dear.
HARGRAVE (_snatching at the straw_). I am. I am.
DILL. I always try to harbor superstitions in the heart, sir, and to
remove them as far from the mind as possible.
HARGRAVE (_advancing with a crafty smile_). Ah, well! So be it then. My
own experience with marriage is limited. However I will say this much
for it. If it weren't for marriage a man could not honorably part with
a woman.
GLORIA (_in a low voice_). I said Mr. Hargrave was the proper person to
apply to, Dill.
HARGRAVE. We will first examine the license.
GLORIA. License?
HARGRAVE (_in the most insulting manner_). All women are not licensed
in this country I am sorry to say. In that the continental custom is
far better. However, before they are married they must be licensed. At
any rate do you think we should have them running around at large?
DILL. Here is the license, sir.
HARGRAVE (_examining it critically_). I don't see your ages here.
DILL. We are both forty. (GLORIA _is about to remonstrate_.)
HARGRAVE. Hm--really, sir, I must object to that. I myself am forty and
should not dream of marrying yet. You are both far too young.
DILL. If you insist, sir, I am a little over forty.
HARGRAVE (_squinting_). And your names are?
GLORIA. Gloria Gibbs.
DILL. Sir John Dillingham Kent.
HARGRAVE. Do I infer that you are a gentleman?
DILL. Oh, yes, sir. Even my brother was that.
HARGRAVE. And your social standing?
GLORIA (_whispering loudly_). Bart, Dill, Bart!
DILL. Br... butler.
HARGRAVE. That settles it. I cannot marry a butler posing as a
gentleman. (_Acts as if about to show them out._)
GLORIA. There is nothing in the Bible which says anything against
marrying a butler, Mr. Hargrave. Pharaoh's chief adviser was a butler,
as you yourself know. (_There is no Bible to be seen and she stares at_
HARGRAVE _deprecatingly_.)
HARGRAVE (_eyeing_ DILL _as if choking would be a pleasure_). And
Pharaoh hung him by the neck, if I am not mistaken.
DILL. The baker, sir, the baker. Very mixing indeed, sir.
HARGRAVE. As God is my baker--I mean my maker--I swear that I will have
nothing further to do with the case. Under the most favorable
conditions I can imagine my marrying a butler, or even a baker, for
that matter, but with due respect to you, Miss Gibbs, I must (_glances
at cuff_) decline to marry a butler, or even Pharaoh himself, to an
idiot. The laws of hygiene govern that.
DILL. Sir!
HARGRAVE. My son has already informed me, Miss Gibbs, that you are an
idiot, and I for one refuse to perform at any ceremony in which you are
the principal.
GLORIA (_opening satchel_). Mediocrity may be the foundation of my
family, sir, but idiocy is not. However, I was prepared for that. I
have found your son something of a clever idiot himself, and first
accurate deductions led me to the belief that his father would be also.
(_Pulls out paper._) I have here complete and accurate credentials to
certify that I have never suffered from Christian Science, Mental
Science, Physical Science, Woman Suffrage, Eugenics, or any of the
other seven deadly diseases so prevalent amongst my sex. I have also
fully recorded a memorandum of the character and chief events of my
life, including ventilation, vivisection, vaccination, marriage--
HARGRAVE. Marriage! (_He gazes profoundly at them._)
GLORIA. This is my second marriage, Mr. Hargrave.
DILL (_apologetically_). We have both been married before, sir. You
see, sir--
HARGRAVE. I see. Are you calling attention to my glasses?
DILL. The fact is that we have each been married to each other, sir.
HARGRAVE (_drawing himself haughtily together_). Am I to gather that
that is any evidence of her sanity? I say it's absurd. Any scientist in
the country will tell you that a perfectly sane, healthy,
well-organized marriage must end somewhere. All things do, and
marriages have the habit, good or otherwise, of ending in divorce. It's
their affinity.
DILL. Ah! But our marriage was annulled, sir. (_Looks about him
confident that victory is won._)
HARGRAVE. To you, sir, I owe an apology. When I informed Miss Gibbs of
my decision in this important case, I had entirely overlooked you. Your
marriage was annulled, you say?
DILL. I do, sir.
HARGRAVE. And you are starting proceedings all over again?
DILL (_now dubious of his mastery of the situation_). Yes, sir.
HARGRAVE. In that event I substantially alter my original assertion. I
said she was an idiot, did I not?
GLORIA. And I can prove to the contrary, Mr. Hargrave.
HARGRAVE. Any man or woman, not willing, but eager--as you have both
shown yourselves to be--to repeat so dangerous an experiment, is
clearly removed from that extremity of the body which we call mind. It
is not a question of one idiot--you are both idiots.
DILL. Is not that a bit of an exaggeration, sir?
HARGRAVE. I think not.
DILL. I am sorry that Mr. Hargrave's son is not here, love. I know he
would marry us.
GLORIA. It's no use, Dill. Show Mr. Hargrave the will, and explain why
we must be married. (_Sound of_ JACK _on the stairs_.)
HARGRAVE. Yes, the will! Show me the will! (_Reaches out for it._)
JACK. Father! I cannot find it! The will is lost! (_Bursts upon them._)
GLORIA (_after a painful pause_). What will, Mr. Hargrave? You seem
extremely nervous. Can there be any relation between your will and
ours? (HARGRAVE _looks very faint_.)
DILL. I don't know if there is any relation between the wills, my dear,
but Mr. Jack said that his father took me for his brother. Of course
Mr. Hargrave didn't know that my name was Kent. However, I had an uncle
named Hargrave, and in case my brother is dead, one half of the estate
shall be his.
HARGRAVE (_buoyant at this turn of affairs_). I am Peter Kent, your
brother, your long missing brother! (_Embraces him._)
GLORIA. When a woman does not change her name for love she does so for
money. It is true sometimes of a man. I see now why Mr. Hargrave
changed his name and why he refuses to marry us. He shall not get a
cent. (_To_ DILL.) I think that you knew all the while that Mr.
Hargrave was your brother, and that you chose to be married by a thief.
(HARGRAVE'S _expression has changed_.)
JANE (_stepping out_). Mr. Hargrave changed his name solely for my
sake. We are going to be married, and I preferred Hargrave to Kent.
That may be remedied, however. As for his brother--he did think him
dead for he told me so himself.
JACK. You have done this for my sake?
GLORIA. For whoever's sake you did it, Jane, I am glad you have got a
husband at last--even if you did it for your own. Come, Dill.
DILL. I should like to spend a few moments with my brother, my own.
GLORIA. Well, not more than a very few moments. (_To_ JANE.) The two
dears look absolutely alike, and when you get tired of yours we might
change them around a bit.
JANE. Are you coming, Jack?
JACK. I'm tired of all this moving around, Jane. I haven't sat down for
five minutes.
JANE. Well, just to the door. (_They go out._ DILL _seats himself
comfortably in the big chair_.)
DILL. Charming little artificial nook here. Shaw says--
HARGRAVE. Do not jest about artificial things, sir. Browne avers that
all things are artificial, nature being only the art of God.
DILL. Browne! Browne! No relation to Browning, sir? Pardon me. Of
course; Browning's the diminutive, Browne naturally the father.
HARGRAVE. Of no relationship whatever. I had reference to Sir Thomas
Browne.
DILL. Ah! A man with a title. One of God's favorites, sir, and possibly
some relation of my own. (_Enter_ KATHRYN. _She is very much out of
breath and holds an open letter in her hand._)
KATHRYN (_between gasps_). Of course, I always knew I had a father.
Every young girl has, and it would be considered most unnatural not to.
(_She is shielded by the angle of the room from_ DILL.) And I always
knew he was a horrid, horrid, man, too. Aunt Gloria confessed that.
(DILL, _hearing_ KATHRYN'S _voice, has risen_.) But at least I thought
he was a gentleman (DILL _takes a step toward her_), and I never, never
dreamed it could be Dill. (_They come face to face._) Oh! (_Turns
away._)
HARGRAVE (_turning threateningly_). What is your social standing, Dill,
I forget?
DILL (_abashed and discomforted_). A butler, sir.
HARGRAVE. Don't cry, dear, Dill is only a butler after all, and not at
all responsible for what he does. (KATHRYN _had not thought of
crying--but_ HARGRAVE _thought she should have_.) It is your mother who
is to blame--your mother! That will do, Dill. (_Forcing him back._)
This is the servant's exit.
DILL (_absolutely unhappy_). Miss Kathryn, let me explain!
HARGRAVE. You may explain to Miss Gibbs, Dill; perhaps she will defer
marrying you now. (_Pushes him out._ DILL _carries a wounded look away
with him_.)
DILL (_clattering down the stairs_). My brother was a gentleman. (JANE
_and_ JACK _enter leisurely by the front_.)
JACK (_taking in situation at a glance_). Is this your work, sir? Have
you proposed to her again, or what?
HARGRAVE (_to_ JANE). Kathryn is for the first time aware of her
father. I need not say that neither butler nor baker is considered the
thing in a family way. To find such a man one's brother is indeed an
unpleasant surprise, but to find him one's father must be a tragedy. We
both feel the blow more deeply than you think.
KATHRYN (_very haughtily_). You need not feel the blow at all, Mr.
Hargrave. I am already half resigned to my parent, and by tomorrow I
have no doubt that he will be in good standing again. My only regret
from the first was that you cannot take his place, and that Dill can
now be nothing more than a father to me.
JACK (_taking her arm_). There, there, my dear! All fathers are
terrible, and I know yours could never be as bad as mine. (_He regards
no one but her._)
|
The load is divided into three parts, the case or bundle of eighteen
sticks, and a separate saddle bag on each side, contrived to hook on to
the saddle, carrying nine Rockets in each bag. By this means there is
no difficulty in loading and unloading the horse.
The whole weight thus carried by an Ammunition Horse is about 19 stone,
consisting of about 6½ stone for the saddle, sticks, &c. and almost
six stone in each of the saddle bags. From which it is evident, that
there is no fear of the load swagging the horse in travelling, because
the centre of gravity is very considerably below his back bone. It is
evident also, that as the weight of the Rockets diminishes by supplying
the mounted men, the weight of the sticks also is diminished, and the
centre of gravity may, if desired, be brought lower and lower, as
the load diminishes, by taking the ammunition from the upper tiers
gradually and equally on each side downwards. It is further evident,
that although spaces are provided for nine Rockets in each bag, that
number may be diminished, should the difficulty of the country, or the
length of the march, or other circumstances, render it advisable to
carry a less load.
The mode of leading these horses will be explained in the next Plate.
[Illustration: _Plate 2_]
ROCKET CAVALRY IN LINE OF MARCH, AND IN ACTION.
Plate 3, Fig. 1, represents a sub-division of Rocket Cavalry, or Rocket
Horse Artillery, marching in column of threes. It consists of six
sections, of three men in each, or a less number of sections, according
to the whole strength of the troop, followed by four ammunition horses,
each pair led by a driver riding between them; on the full scale,
therefore, a sub-division will consist of 24 horses and 20 men, and
will carry into action 152 rounds of 12-pounder Shell or Case Shot
Rockets, and six bouches a feù or chambers, carried by the centre men
of each section.
Fig. 2 represents this division in action, where the division may be
supposed to have been halted in line, on the words--“_Prepare for
action in front--dismount_”--Nos. 1 and 3 having dismounted, and
given their leading reins to No. 2, who remains mounted, No. 1 runs
forward about 15 or 20 paces with the chamber, which he draws from the
leather case at the back of No. 2’s valise; and while Nos. 2 and 3 are
preparing a Rocket, drawn from any one of the holsters most convenient,
No. 1 fixes the chamber into the ground, pointing it to the desired
object, and lights his portfire ready for the first round, which No.
3 by this time will have brought to him, and laid into the chamber;
there remains, then, only for No. 1 to touch the vent of the Rocket
with his portfire, No. 3 having run back for another round, which No.
2 will have been able to prepare in the mean time. In this way the
sub-division will, without hurry, come into action with six bouches a
feù, in one minute’s time, and may continue their fire, without any
extraordinary exertion, at the rate of from two to three rounds from
each chamber in a minute, or even four with good exertion; so that the
six bouches a feù would discharge 80 rounds of 6-pounder ammunition in
three minutes. Twelve light frames for firing the 12-pounder Rockets at
high angles are further provided in addition to the ground chambers,
and each of the drivers of the ammunition horses has one in his charge,
in case of distant action.
The preparation of the Rocket for firing is merely the fixing the stick
to it, either by the pincers, pointed hammer, or wrench, provided for
joining the parts of the stick also. These modes I have lately devised,
as being more simple and economical than the screw formerly used; but
cannot at present pronounce which is the best; great care, however,
must be taken to fix the stick securely, as every thing depends on it;
the vent also must be very carefully uncovered, as, if not perfectly
so, the Rocket is liable to burst; and in firing the portfire must not
be thrust too far into the Rocket, for the same reason.
On the words “_Cease firing_,” No. 1 cuts his portfire, takes up
his chamber, runs back to his section, and replaces the chamber
immediately. No. 3 also immediately runs back; and having no other
operation to perform, replaces the leading reins, and the whole are
ready to mount again, for the performance of any further manœuvre that
may be ordered, in less than a minute from the word “_Cease firing_”
having been given.
It is obvious that the combined celerity and quantity of the discharge
of ammunition of this description of artillery cannot be equalled or
even approached, taking in view the means and nature of ammunition
employed, by any other known system; the universality also of the
operation, not being incumbered with wheel carriages, must be duly
appreciated, as, in fact, it can proceed not only wherever cavalry can
act, but even wherever infantry can get into action; it having been
already mentioned that part of the exercise of these troops, supposing
them to be stopped by walls, or ditches and morasses, impassable to
horses, is to take the holsters and sticks from the horses, and advance
on foot.
Another vast advantage is the few men required to make a complete
section, as by this means the number of points of fire is so greatly
multiplied, compared to any other system of artillery. Thus it may
be stated that the number of bouches a feù, which may comparatively
be brought into action, by equal means, on the scale of a troop of
horse artillery, would be at least six to one; and that they may
either be spread over a great extent of line, or concentrated into a
very small focus, according to the necessity of the service; indeed
the skirmishing exercise of the Rocket Cavalry, divided and spread
into separate sections, and returning by sound of bugle, forms a very
interesting part of the system, and can be well imagined from the
foregoing description and the annexed Plate.
[Illustration: _Plate 3_ Fig. 1 Fig. 2]
ROCKET CARS.
Plate 4, Fig. 1, represents a Rocket Car in line of march. There are
two descriptions of these cars, of similar construction--one for 32
or 24-pounder ammunition, the other for 18 or 12-pounder; and which
are, therefore, called heavy or light cars: the heavy car will carry
40 rounds of 24-pounder Rockets, armed with cohorn shells, and the
light one will convey 60 rounds of 12-pounder, or 50 of 18-pounder
ammunition, which is packed in boxes on the limber, the sticks being
carried in half lengths in the boxes on the after part of the carriage,
where the men also ride on seats fixed for the purpose, and answering
also for small store boxes; they are each supposed to be drawn by four
horses.
These cars not only convey the ammunition, but are contrived also
to discharge each two Rockets in a volley from a double iron plate
trough, which is of the same length as the boxes for the sticks, and
travels between them; but which, being moveable, may, when the car is
unlimbered, be shifted into its fighting position at any angle from the
ground ranges, or point blank up to 45°, without being detached front
the carriage.
Fig. 2 represents these Rocket Cars in action: the one on the left
hand has its trough in the position for ground firing, the trough
being merely lifted off the bed of the axle tree on which it travels,
and laid on the ground, turning by two iron stays on a centre in the
axle tree; the right hand car is elevated to a high angle, the trough
being raised and supported by the iron stays behind, and in front by
the perch of the carriage, connected to it by a joint, the whole kept
steady by bolting the stays, and by tightening a chain from the perch
to the axle tree. The limbers are always supposed to be in the rear.
The Rockets are fired with a portfire and long stick; and two men will
fight the light car, four men the heavy one.
The exercise is very simple; the men being told off, Nos. 1, 2, 3,
and 4, to the heavy carriage. On the words, “_Prepare for action, and
unlimber_,” the same process takes place as in the 6-pounder exercise.
On the words, “_Prepare for ground firing_,” Nos. 2 and 3 take hold
of the hand irons, provided on purpose, and, with the aid of No. 4,
raise the trough from its travelling position, and lower it down to
the ground under the carriage; or on the words “_Prepare to elevate_,”
raise it to the higher angles, No. 4 bolting the stays, and fixing the
chain. No. 1 having in the mean time prepared and lighted his portfire,
and given the direction of firing to the trough, Nos. 2, 3, and 4,
then run to the limber to fix the ammunition, which No. 2 brings up,
two rounds at a time, or one, as ordered, and helping No. 1 to place
them in the trough as far back as the stick will admit: this operation
is facilitated by No. 1 stepping upon the lower end of either of the
stick boxes, on which a cleat is fastened for this purpose; No. 1 then
discharges the two Rockets separately, firing that to leeward first,
while No. 2 returns for more ammunition: this being the hardest duly,
the men will, of course, relieve No. 2 in their turns. In fighting the
light frame, two men are sufficient to elevate or depress it, but they
will want aid to fix and bring up the ammunition for quick firing.
[Illustration: _Plate 4_ Fig. 1 Fig. 2]
ROCKET INFANTRY IN LINE OF MARCH, AND IN ACTION.
Plate 5, Fig. 1, represents a sub-division of Rocket infantry in line
of march--Fig. 2, the same in action. The system here shewn is the use
of the Rockets by infantry--one man in ten, or any greater proportion,
carrying a frame, of very simple construction, from which the Rockets
may be discharged either for ground ranges, or at high angles, and
the rest carrying each three rounds of ammunition, which, for this
service, is proposed to be either the 12-pounder Shell Rockets, or the
12-pounder Rocket case shot, each round equal to the 6-pounder case,
and ranging 2,500 yards. So that 100 men will bring into action, in
any situation where musketry can be used, nearly 300 rounds of this
description of artillery, with ranges at 45°, double those of light
field ordnance.
The exercise and words of command are as follow:
No. 1 carries the frame, which is of very simple construction, standing
on legs like a theodolite, when spread, and which closes similarly
for carrying. This frame requires no spunging, the Rocket being fired
merely from an open cradle, from which it may be either discharged by
a lock or by a portfire, in which case. No. 1 also carries the pistol,
portfire-lighter, and tube box. No. 2 carries a small pouch, with the
requisite small stores, such as spare tubes, portfires, &c.; and a long
portfire stick.
Nos. 3, 4, and 5, &c. to 10, carry each, conveniently, on his back, a
pouch, containing three Rockets; and three sticks, secured together by
straps and buckles.
With this distribution, they advance in double files. On the word
“_Halt_,” “_Prepare for action_,” being given, No. 1 spreads his frame,
and with the assistance of No. 2, fixes it firmly into the ground,
preparing it at the desired elevation. No. 2 then hands the portfire
stick to No. 1, who prepares and lights it, while No. 2 steps back to
receive the Rocket; which has been prepared by Nos. 3, 4, &c. who have
fallen back about fifteen paces, on the word being given to “_Prepare
for action_.” These men can always supply the ammunition quicker than
it can be fired, and one or other must therefore advance towards the
frame to meet No. 2 with the round prepared. No. 2 having thus received
the Rocket, places it on the cradle, at the same instant that No. 1
puts a tube into the vent. No. 2 then points the frame, which has an
universal traverse after the legs are fixed; he then gives the word
“_Ready_,” “_Fire_,” to No. 1, who takes up his portfire and discharges
the Rocket. No. 1 now sticks his portfire stick into the ground, and
prepares another tube; while No. 2, as before, puts the Rocket into the
frame, points, and gives the word “_Ready_,” “_Fire_,” again. By this
process, from three to four Rockets a minute may, without difficulty,
be fired from one frame, until the words “_Cease firing_,” “_Prepare
to advance_,” or “_retreat_,” are given; when the frame is in a moment
taken from the ground, and the whole party may either retire or advance
immediately in press time, if required. To insure which, and at the
same time to prevent any injury to the ammunition, Nos. 3, 4, &c. must
not be allowed to take off their pouches, as they will be able to
assist one another in preparing the ammunition, by only laying down
their sticks; in taking up which again no time is lost.
If the frame is fired with a lock, the same process is used, except
that No. 1 primes and cocks, and No. 2 fires on receiving the word from
No. 1.
For ground firing, the upper part of this frame, consisting of the
chamber and elevating stem, takes off from the legs, and the bottom of
the stem being pointed like a picquet post, forms a very firm bouche a
feù when stuck into the ground; the chamber at point blank being at a
very good height for this practice, and capable of traversing in any
direction. The exercise, in this case, is, of course, in other respects
similar to that at high angles.
[Illustration: _Plate 5_ Fig. 1 Fig. 2]
THE MODE OF USING ROCKETS IN BOMBARDMENT.
Plate 6, Fig. 1, represents the mode of carrying the bombarding frame
and ammunition by men. The apparatus required is merely a light
ladder, 12 feet in length, having two iron chambers, which are fixed
on in preparing for action at the upper end of the ladder; from which
chambers the Rockets are discharged, by means of a musket lock; the
ladder being reared to any elevation, by two legs or pry-poles, as in
Fig. 2. Every thing required for this service may be carried by men;
or a Flanders-pattern ammunition waggon, with four horses, will convey
60 rounds of 32-pounder Carcasses, in ten boxes, eight of the boxes
lying cross-ways on the floor of the waggon, and two length-ways, at
top. On these the frame, complete for firing two Rockets at a flight,
with spunges, &c. is laid; and the sticks on each side, to complete
the stowage of all that is necessary, the whole being covered by the
tilt. Four men only are required to be attached to each waggon, who are
numbered 1, 2, 3, & 4.
The frame and ammunition having been brought into the battery, or to
any other place, concealed either by trees or houses (for from the
facility of taking new ground, batteries are not so indispensable as
with mortars), the words “_Prepare for bombardment_” are given; on
which the frame is prepared for rearing, Nos. 1 and 2 first fixing the
chambers on the ladder; Nos. 3 and 4 attaching the legs to the frame
as it lies on the ground. The words “_Rear frame_” are then given;
when all assist in raising it, and the proper elevation is given,
according to the words “_Elevate to 35°_” or “_45°_,” or whatever
angle the officer may judge necessary, according to the required
range, by spreading or closing the legs of the frame, agreeable to
the distances marked in degrees on a small measuring tape, which the
non-commissioned officer carries, and which is called--the Elevating
Line. The word “_Point_” is then given: which is done by means of a
plumb-line, hanging down from the vertex of the triangle, and which at
the same time shews whether the frame is upright or not. Things being
thus arranged, Nos. 1 and 2 place themselves at the foot of the ladder,
and Nos. 3 and 4 return to fix the ammunition in the rear, in readiness
for the word “_Load_.” When this is given, No. 3 brings a Rocket to the
foot of the ladder, having before hand _carefully_ taken off the circle
that covered the vent, and handing it to No. 2, runs for another. In
the mean time, No. 1 has ascended the ladder to receive the first
Rocket from No. 2, and to place it in the chamber at the top of the
ladder; by the time this is done, No. 2 is ready to give him another
Rocket, which in like manner he places in the other chamber: he then
primes the locks with a tube and powder, and, cocking the two locks,
after every thing else is done, descends from the ladder, and, when
down, gives the word “_Ready_;” on which, he and No. 2 each take one of
the trigger lines, and retire ten or twelve paces obliquely, waiting
for the word “_Fire_” from the officer or non-commissioned officer, on
which they pull, either separately or together, as previously ordered.
On the Rockets leaving the frame, No. 1 immediately runs up and
spunges out the two chambers with a very wet spunge, having for this
purpose a water bucket suspended at the top of the frame; which being
done, he receives a Rocket from No. 2, as before, No. 3 having, in
the mean time, brought up a fresh supply; in doing which, however, he
must never bring from the rear more than are wanted for each round.
In this routine, any number of rounds is tired, until the words
“_Cease firing_” are given; which, if followed by those, “_Prepare to
retreat_,” Nos. 3 and 4 run forward to the ladder; and on the words
_“Lower frame_,” they ease it down in the same order in which it was
raised, take it to pieces, and may thus retire in less than five
minutes: or if the object of ceasing to fire is merely a change of
position to no great distance, the four men may with ease carry the
frame, without taking it to pieces, the waggon following them with the
ammunition, or the ammunition being borne by men, as circumstances may
render expedient.
_The ammunition_ projected from this frame consists of 32-pounder
Rockets, armed with carcasses of the following sorts and ranges:--
1st.--_The small carcass_, containing 8 lbs. of carcass composition,
being 3 lbs. more than the present 10-inch spherical carcass.--Range
3,000 yards.
2nd.--_The medium carcass_, containing 12 lbs. of carcass composition,
being equal to the present 13-inch.--Range 2,500 yards.
3rd.--_The large carcass_, containing 18 lbs. of carcass composition,
being 6 lbs. more than the present 13-inch spherical carcass.--Range
2,000 yards.
Or 32-pounder Rockets, armed with bursting cones, made of stout iron,
filled with powder, to be exploded by fuzes, and to be used to produce
the explosive effects of shells, where such effect is preferred to the
conflagration of the carcass. These cones contain as follows:--
_Small._--Five lbs. of powder, equal to the bursting powder of a
10-inch shell.--Range 3,000 yards.
_Medium._--Eight lbs. of powder, equal to the bursting powder of a
13-inch shell.--Range 2,500 yards.
_Large._--Twelve lbs. of powder.--Range 2,000 yards.
N.B. I have lately had a successful experiment, with bombarding
Rockets, six inches diameter, and weighing 148 lbs.--and doubt not of
extending the bombarding powers of the system much further.
[Illustration: _Plate 6_ Fig. 1 Fig. 2]
THE MODE OF USING ROCKETS IN BOMBARDMENT, FROM EARTH WORKS, WITHOUT
APPARATUS.
Plate 7, Fig. 1, is a perspective view of a Battery, erected expressly
for throwing Rockets in bombardment, where the interior slope has the
angle of projection required, and is equal to the length of the Rocket
and stick.
The great advantage of this system is, that, as it dispenses with
apparatus: where there is time for forming a work of this sort, of
considerable length, the quantity of fire, that may be thrown in a
given time, is limited only by the length of the work: thus, as the
Rockets may be laid in embrasures cut in the bank, at every two feet, a
battery of this description, 200 feet in length, will fire 100 Rockets
in a volley, and so on; or an incessant and heavy fire may, by such
a battery, be kept up from one flank to the other, by replacing the
Rockets as fast as they are fired in succession.
The rule for forming this battery is as follows.
“The length of the interior slope of this work is half formed by the
excavation, and half by the earth thrown out; for the base therefore of
the interior slope of the part to be raised, at an angle of 55°, set
off two thirds of the intended perpendicular height--cut down the slope
to a perpendicular depth equal to the above mentioned height--then
setting off, for the breadth of the interior excavation, one third more
than the intended thickness of the work, carry down a regular ramp
from the back part of this excavation to the foot of the slope, and
the excavation will supply the quantity of earth necessary to give the
exterior face a slope of 45°.”
Fig. 2 is a perspective view of a common epaulement converted into a
Rocket battery. In this case, as the epaulement is not of sufficient
length to support the Rocket and stick, holes must be bored in the
ground, with a miner’s borer, of a sufficient depth to receive the
sticks, and at such distances, and such an angle, as it is intended
to place the Rockets for firing. The inside of the epaulement must be
pared away to correspond with this angle, say 55°. The Rockets are then
to be laid in embrasures, formed in the bank, as in the last case.
Where the ground is such as to admit of using the borer, this latter
system, of course, is the easiest operation; and for such ground as
would be likely to crumble into the holes, slight tubes are provided,
about two feet long, to preserve the opening; in fact, these tubes will
be found advantageous in all ground.
Fig. 2 also shews a powerful mode of defending a field work by means of
Rockets, in addition to the defences of the present system; merely by
cutting embrasures in the glacis, for horizontal firing.
[Illustration: _Plate 7_ Fig. 1 Fig. 2]
A ROCKET AMBUSCADE.
Plate 8, Fig. 1, represents one of the most important uses that can be
made of Rockets for field service; it is that of the Rocket Ambuscade
for the defence of a pass, or for covering the retreat of an army,
by placing any number, hundreds or thousands, of 32 or 24-pounder
shell Rockets, or of 32-pounder Rockets, armed with 18-pounder shot,
limited as to quantity only by the importance of the object, which
is to be obtained; as by this means, the most extensive destruction,
even amounting to annihilation, may be carried amongst the ranks of an
advancing enemy, and that with the exposure of scarcely an individual.
The Rockets are laid in rows or batteries of 100 or 500 in a row,
according to the extent of ground to be protected. They are to be
concealed either in high grass, or masked in any other convenient
way; and the ambuscade may be formed of any required number of these
batteries, one behind the other, each battery being prepared to be
discharged in a volley, by leaders of quick match: so that one man is,
in fact, alone sufficient to fire the whole in succession, beginning
with that nearest to the enemy, as soon as he shall have perceived
them near enough to warrant his firing. Where the batteries are very
extensive, each battery may be sub-divided into smaller parts, with
separate trains to each, so that the whole, or any particular division
of each battery, may be fired, according to the number and position of
the enemy advancing. Trains, or leaders, are provided for this service,
of a particular construction, being a sort of flannel saucissons,
with two or three threads of slow match, which will strike laterally
at all points, and are therefore very easy of application; requiring
only to be passed from Rocket to Rocket, crossing the vents, by which
arrangement the fire running along, from vent to vent, is sure to
strike every Rocket in quick succession, without their disturbing each
others’ direction in going off, which they might otherwise do, being
placed within 18 inches apart, if all were positively fired at the same
instant.
Fig. 2 is a somewhat similar application, but not so much in the nature
of an ambuscade as of an open defence. Here a very low work is thrown
up, for the defence of a post, or of a chain of posts, consisting
merely of as much earth and turf as is sufficient to form the sides of
shallow embrasures for the large Rockets, placed from two to three feet
apart, or nearer; from which the Rockets are supposed to be discharged
independently, by a certain number of artillery-men, employed to keep
up the fire, according to the necessity of the case.
It is evident, that by this mode, an incessant and tremendous fire may
be maintained, which it would be next to impossible for an advancing
enemy to pass through, not only from its quantity and the weight and
destructive nature of the ammunition, but from the closeness of its
lines and its contiguity to the ground; leaving, in fact, no space in
front which must not be passed over and ploughed up after very few
rounds.
As both these operations are supposed to be employed in defensive
warfare, and therefore in fixed stations, there is no difficulty
involved in the establishment of a sufficient depôt of ammunition for
carrying them on upon the most extensive scale; though it is obviously
impossible to accomplish any thing approaching this system of defence,
by the ordinary means of artillery.
[Illustration: _Plate 8_ Fig. 1 Fig. 2]
THE USE OF ROCKETS IN THE ATTACK AND DEFENCE OF FORTIFIED PLACES.
Plate 9, Fig. 1, represents the advanced batteries and approaches in
the attack of some fortress, where an imperfect breach being supposed
to have been made in the salient angle of any bastion, large Rockets,
weighing each from two to three hundred weight or more, and being each
loaded with not less than a barrel of powder, are fired into the ruins
after the revetment is broken, in order, by continual explosions, to
render the breach practicable in the most expeditious way. To insure
every Rocket that is fired having the desired effect, they are so
heavily laden, as not to rise off the ground when fired along it; and
under these circumstances are placed in a small shallow trench, run
along to the foot of the glacis, from the nearest point of the third
parallel, and in a direct line for the breach: by this means, the
Rockets being laid in this trench will invariably pursue exactly the
same course, and every one of them will be infallibly lodged in the
breach. It is evident, that the whole of this is intended as a night
operation, and a few hours would suffice, not only for running forward
the trench, which need not be more than 18 inches deep, and about nine
inches wide, undiscovered, but also for firing a sufficient number of
Rockets to make a most complete breach before the enemy could take
means to prevent the combinations of the operation.
From the experiments I have lately made, I have reason to believe, that
Rockets much larger than those above mentioned may be formed for this
description of service--Rockets from half a ton to a ton weight; which
being driven in very strong and massive cast iron cases, may possess
such strength and force, that, being fired by a process similar to
that above described, even against the revetment of any fortress,
unimpaired by a cannonade, it shall, by its mass and form, pierce the
same; and having pierced it, shall, with one explosion of several
barrels of powder, blow such portion of the masonry into the ditch, as
shall, with very few rounds, complete a practicable breach.
It is evident, from this view of the weapon, that the Rocket System is
not only capable of a degree of portability, and facility for light
movements, which no weapon possesses, but that its ponderous parts, or
the individual masses of its ammunition, also greatly exceed those of
ordinary artillery. And yet, although this last description of Rocket
ammunition appears of an enormous mass, as ammunition, still if it be
found capable of the powers here supposed, of which _I_ have little
doubt, the whole weight to be brought in this way against any town, for
the accomplishment of a breach, will bear _no comparison_ whatever to
the weight of ammunition now required for the same service, independent
of the saving of time and expense, and the great comparative simplicity
of the approaches and works required for a siege carried on upon this
system. This class of Rockets I propose to denominate the _Belier a
feù_.
Fig. 2 represents the converse of this system, or the use of these
larger Rockets for the defence of a fortress by the demolition of the
batteries erected against it. In this case, the Rockets are fired from
embrasures, in the crest of the glacis, along trenches cut a part of
the way in the direction of the works to be demolished.
[Illustration: _Plate 9_ Fig. 1 Fig. 2]
OF THE USE OF ROCKETS BY INFANTRY AGAINST CAVALRY, AND IN COVERING THE
STORMING OF A FORTRESS.
Plate 10, Fig. 1, represents an attack of cavalry against infantry,
repulsed by the use of Rockets. These Rockets are supposed to be of the
lightest nature, 12 or 9-pounders, carried on bat horses or in small
tumbrils, or with 6-pounder shell Rockets, of which one man is capable
of carrying six in a bundle, for any peculiar service; or so arranged,
that the flank companies of every regiment may be armed, each man, with
such a Rocket, in addition to his carbine or rifle, the Rocket being
contained in a small leather case, attached to his cartouch, slinging
the carbine or rifle, and carrying the stick on his shoulder, serving
him either as a spear, by being made to receive the bayonet, or as a
rest for his piece.
By this means every battalion would possess a powerful battery of
this ammunition, _in addition_ to all its ordinary means of attack
and defence, and with scarcely any additional burthen to the flank
companies, the whole weight of the Rocket and stick not exceeding six
pounds, and the difference between the weight of a rifle and that of a
musket being about equivalent. As to the mode of using them in action,
for firing at long ranges, as these Rockets are capable of a range of
2,000 yards, a few portable frames might be carried by each regiment,
without any incumbrance, the frames for this description of Rocket not
being heavier than a musket; but as the true intention of the arm, in
this distribution of it, is principally for close quarters, either
in case of a charge of cavalry, or even of infantry, it is generally
supposed to be fired in vollies, merely laid on the ground, as in
the Plate here described. And, as it is well known, how successfully
charges of cavalry are frequently sustained by infantry, even by the
fire of the musket alone, it is not presuming too much to infer, that
the repulse of cavalry would be _absolutely certain_, by masses of
infantry, possessing the additional aid of powerful vollies of these
shell Rockets. So also in charges of infantry, whether the battalion so
armed be about to charge, or to receive a charge, a well-timed volley
of one or two hundred such Rockets, judiciously thrown in by the flank
companies, must produce the most decisive effects. Neither can it be
doubted, that in advancing to an attack, the flank companies might
make the most formidable use of this arm, mixed with the fire of their
rifles or carbines, in all light infantry or tiraillieur manœuvres. In
like manner, in the passage of rivers, to protect the advanced party,
or for the establishment of a _tete-du-pont_, and generally on all such
occasions, Rockets will be found capable of the greatest service, as
shewn the other day in passing the Adour. In short, I must here remark
that the use of the Rocket, in these branches of it, is no more limited
than the use of gunpowder itself.
Fig. 2 represents the covering of the storm of a fortified place by
means of Rockets. These are supposed to be of the heavy natures, both
carcass and shell Rockets; the former fired in great quantities from
the trenches at high angles; the latter in ground ranges in front of
the third parallel. It cannot be doubted that the confusion created in
any place, by a fire of some thousand Rockets thus thrown at two or
three vollies quickly repeated, must be most favourable, either to the
storming of a particular breach, or to a general escalade.
I must here observe, that although, in all cases, I lay the greatest
stress upon the use of this arm _in great quantities_, it is not
therefore to be presumed, that the effect of an individual Rocket
carcass, the smallest of which contains as much combustible matter as
the 10-inch spherical carcass, is not at least equal to that of the
10-inch spherical carcass: or that the explosion of a shell thrown by a
Rocket, is not in its effects equal to the explosion of that same shell
thrown by any other means: but that, as the power of _instantaneously_
throwing the _most unlimited_ quantities of carcasses or shells is the
_exclusive property_ of this weapon, and as there can be no question
that an infinitely greater effect, both physical[A] as well as moral,
is produced by the instantaneous application of any quantity of
ammunition, with innumerable other advantages, than by a fire in slow
succession of that same quantity: so it would be an absolute absurdity,
and a downright waste of power, not to make this exclusive property the
general basis of every application of the weapon, limited only by a due
proportion between the expenditure and the value of the object to be
attained--a
|
, but not happiness arising from power; his dull
eyes see nothing, though his mind's eye sees one thing clearly--the
money bags on his lap. The two frail creatures of youth and maiden,
"types of humanity" as Watts said, are crushed by his heavy limbs, while
behind a fire burns continuously, perhaps also within his massive
breast.
_Portraits_.--In portraiture, as in other forms of art, Watts had
distinct and peculiar views. He gradually came to the opinion, which he
adopted as his first rule in portraiture, that it was his duty, not
merely to copy the external features of the sitter, but to give what
might be called an intellectual copy. He declared it to be possible and
necessary for the sitter and painter to attain a unity of feeling and a
sympathy, by which he (the painter) was inspired. Watts' earlier
portraits, while being far from characterless, are not instances of the
application of this principle. There is in them a slight tendency to
eighteenth-century ideal portraiture, which so often took the sitter
(and the observer too) back to times and attitudes, backgrounds and
thunderstorms, that never were and never will be.
Watts, however, was slightly influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite school. He
might, had he wished, have been their portrait painter--and indeed, the
picture of the comely Mrs. Hughes, a kind, motherly creature, with a
background of distant fields, minutely painted, is quite on the lines of
Pre-Raphaelite realism.
[Illustration: PLATE VI.--LOVE TRIUMPHANT
(At the Tate Gallery)
Time and Death having travelled together through the ages,
have run their course and are at length overthrown. Love alone
arises on immortal wings, triumphantly, with outspread arms to
the eternal skies.
Given to the nation in 1900.]
Somewhat of the same character is the portrait of Mrs. Nassau Senior,
who, with one knee on a sofa, is shown tending flowers, her rippling
golden hair falling over her shoulders. A full-length portrait of Miss
Mary Kirkpatrick Brunton, dated 1842, also belongs to the old style.
Watts had a passion for human loveliness, and in his day some of the
great beauties sat to him. The "Jersey Lily" (Mrs. Langtry) with her
simple headdress and downcast eye, appeared at the Academy of 1879.
"Miss Rachel Gurney" is a wonderful portrait of a flaming soul
imprisoned in a graceful form and graceless dress. Miss Gurney is shown
standing, turning slightly to the right with the head again turned over
the right shoulder, while the whole effect of energy seems to be
concentrated in the flashing eyes. Watts was able to interpret equally
well personalities of a very different character, and perhaps the canvas
representing Miss Edith Villiers is one of the most successful of his
spiritual portraits. Miss Dorothy Dene, whose complexion Watts was one
of the first to transfer to canvas, Miss Mary Anderson, and Miss Dorothy
Maccallum, were all triumphantly depicted. He will be known, however, as
the citizen portrait-painter of the nineteenth century, who preserved
for us not merely the form, but the spirit of some of the greatest men
of his day. Lord Tennyson sat three times. In 1859 the poet was shown in
the prime of life, his hair and beard ruffled, his look determined. In
1864 we had another canvas--"the moonlight portrait"; the face is
that of Merlin, meditative, thoughtful. As you look at it the features
stand out with great clearness, the distance of the laurels behind his
head can be estimated almost precisely, while seen through them is the
gleam of the moon upon the distant water. The 1890 portrait, in
scholastic robes, with grizzled beard, and hair diminished, is Tennyson
the mystic, and reminds us of his "Ancient Sage"--
"... for more than once when I
Sat all alone, revolving in myself
The word that is the symbol of myself,
The Mortal limit of the self was loosed
And passed into the Nameless, as a cloud
Melts into heaven."
The portrait of John L. Motley, the American Minister to England in
1869, and author of "The Rise of the Dutch Republic," is one of the most
successful paintings of handsome men; Watts here depicts perfectly the
"spiritual body" of strength, purity, and appeal; the eyes are deepest
blue, and the hair the richest brown. In this case the artist has, as he
was so prone, fallen into symbolism even in portraiture, for we can
trace in the background a faint picture of an old-time fighting ship.
Another classic portrait, so different to that by Whistler, is of Thomas
Carlyle. The sage of Chelsea sits ruffled and untidy, with his hands
resting on the head of a stick, and his features full of power. He seems
protesting against the few hours' idleness, and anxious to get back to
the strenuous life. The sitter was good enough to say that the portrait
was of "a mad labourer"--not an unfair criticism of a very good
portrait.
_The Biblical Paintings_ are, as before said, in partial fulfilment of
the frustrated scheme of "Cosmos." "Eve Repentant," in an attitude so
typical of grief, is perhaps the most beautiful; it is one of a trilogy,
the others being "She shall be called Woman," and "Eve Tempted." It is
singular that in these three canvases the painter avoids the attempt to
draw the face of the mother of the race. In the first the face is
upturned, covered in shadow; in the second it is hid from view by the
leaves of the forbidden tree, while in the third Eve turns her back and
hides her weeping face with her arms. This habit of Watts to obscure the
face is observed in "The Shuddering Angel," Judgment in "Time, Death,
and Judgment," in "Love and Death," "Sic Transit," "Great Possessions,"
and some others. Often indeed a picture speaks as much of what is not
seen as of what is seen.
Incidents from the Gospels are represented by "The Prodigal," where the
outcast is seen crouching on the ground, his face fixed on vacuity,
almost in the act of coming to himself. "For he had Great Possessions,"
is, however, the greatest and simplest of all. There the young man who
went away sorrowful with bowed head, scarcely knowing what he has lost,
is used by Watts as one of his most powerful criticisms of modern life.
Although the incident is a definite isolated one, yet the costume,
figure, chain of office, and jewelled fingers, clutching and releasing,
are of no time or land in particular.
It is not a little remarkable that Watts, who had breathed so deeply the
air of Italy, and had almost lived in company of Titian and Raphael,
should never have attempted the figure of Christ or His apostles. This
was, however, not without reason. His pictures were not only "for all
time," but apart from time altogether. His only specific reference to
Christianity is his beautiful canvas, "The Spirit of Christianity," in
which he rebuked the Churches for their dissensions. A parental figure
floats upon a cloud while four children nestle at her feet. The earth
below is shrouded in darkness and gloom, despite the steeple tower
raising its head above a distant village. The rebuke was immediately
stimulated by the refusal of a certain church to employ Watts when the
officials found he was not of their faith. In this picture Watts
approached nearest to the Italian Madonnas both in form and colour.
_The Mythical Paintings_ are, in the main, earlier than the Biblical
series, but even here the same note of teaching is struck, and our human
sympathies are drawn out towards the figure depicted. In one, "Echo"
comes to find her lover transformed into a flower; in another, "Psyche,"
through disobedience, has lost her love. She gazes regretfully at a
feather fallen from Cupid's wing; it is a pink feather, such as might be
taken from the plumage of the little Lord of Love who vainly opposes
Death in his approach to the beloved one. In "Psyche," Watts has made
the pale body expressive of abject loss; there is no physical effort,
except in the well-expanded feet, and no other thought but lost love.
The legend of "Diana and Endymion" was painted three times--"good,
better, best." A shepherd loved the Moon, who in his sleep descends from
heaven to embrace him. The canvas of 1903 must be regarded as the final
success--the sleeping figure is more asleep, his vision more dreamlike
and diaphanous. "Orpheus and Eurydice" (painted three times) is perhaps
the greatest of his classical pictures. It is one of the few
compositions that were considered by its author as "finished." Here
again the lover through disobedience loses his love; the falling figure
of Eurydice is one of the most beautiful and realistic of all the series
of Watts' nudes, and the agony of loss, the energy of struggle, are
magnificently drawn in the figure of Orpheus. Looking at the canvas, one
recalls the lines of the old Platonic poet-philosopher Boëthius:
"At length the shadowy king,
His sorrows pitying,
'He hath prevailed!' cried;
'We give him back his bride!
To him she shall belong,
As guerdon of his song.
One sole condition yet
Upon the boon is set;
Let him not turn his eyes
To view his hard-won prize,
Till they securely pass
The gates of Hell.' Alas!
What law can lovers move?
A higher law is love!
For Orpheus--woe is me!--
On his Eurydice--
Day's threshold all but won--
Looked, lost, and was undone!"
In "The Minotaur," that terrible creature, half man, half bull, crushing
with his hideous claw the body of a bird, stands ever waiting to consume
by his cruel lust the convoy of beauteous forms coming unseen and
unwilling over the sea to him. It is an old myth, but Watts intended it
for a modern message. The picture was painted by him in the heat of
indignation in three hours.
A small but very important group of paintings, which I call "The
Pessimistic Series," begins with "Life's Illusions," painted in 1849.
"It is," says Watts, "an allegorical design typifying the march of human
life." Fair visions of Beauty, the abstract embodiments of divers forms
of Hope and Ambition, hover high in the air above the gulf which stands
as the goal of all men's lives. At their feet lie the shattered symbols
of human greatness and power, and upon the narrow space of earth that
overhangs the deep abyss are figured the brighter forms of illusions
that endure through every changing fashion of the world. A knight in
armour pricks on his horse in quick pursuit of the rainbow-tinted bubble
of glory; on his right are two lovers; on his left an aged student still
pores over his work by the last rays of the dying sun; while in the
shadow of the group may be seen the form of a little child chasing a
butterfly.
This picture has the merit, along with "Fata Morgana," of combining the
teaching element with one of the finest representations of woman's form
that came from Watts' brush. He was one of those who vigorously defended
the painting of the nude. These are some of his words:
"One of the great missions of art--the greatest indeed--is to
serve the same grand and noble end as poetry by holding in
check that natural and ever-increasing tendency to hypocrisy
which is consequent upon and constantly nurtured by
civilisation. My aim is now, and will be to the end, not so
much to paint pictures which are delightful to the eye, but
pictures which will go to the intelligence and the
imagination, and kindle there what is good and noble, and
which will appeal to the heart. And in doing this I am forced
to paint the nude."
"Fata Morgana" is a picture of Fortune or Opportunity pursued and lost
by an ardent horseman. It was painted twice, first in the Italian style,
and again in what must be called Watts' own style--much the finer
effort. This picture shows us what, in the artist's view, man in this
mortal life desires, pursues, and mostly loses. Fortune has a lock of
hair on her forehead by which alone she may be captured, and as she
glides mockingly along, she leads her pursuers across rock, stream,
dale, desert, and meadow typical of life. The pursuit of the elusive is
a favourite theme with Watts, and is set forth by the picture
"Mischief." Here a fine young man is battling for his liberty against an
airy spirit representing Folly or Mischief. Humanity bends his neck
beneath the enchanter's yoke--a wreath of flowers thrown round his
neck--and is led an unwilling captive; as he follows the roses turn to
briars about his muscular limbs, and at every step the tangle becomes
denser, while one by one the arrows drop from his hand. The thought of
"Life's Illusions" and "Fata Morgana" is again set forth in "Sic Transit
Gloria Mundi," where we see the body of a king whose crown, and all that
represents to him the glory of the world, is left at death. It is not,
however, in Watts' conception essential glory that passes away, but the
_Glory of the World_. Upon the dark curtain that hangs behind the
shrouded figure are words that represent his final wisdom, "What I
spent, I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have."
[Illustration: PLATE VII.--THE GOOD SAMARITAN
(At the Manchester Art Gallery)
This is an early picture, painted in the year 1852 and
presented to the city of Manchester by the artist in honour of
the prison philanthropist, a native of that city.]
These I call "Pessimistic paintings," because they represent the true
discovery ever waiting to be made by man, that the sum total of all that
can be gained in man's external life--wealth, fame, strength, and
power--that these inevitably pass from him. To know this, to see it
clearly, to accept it, is the happiness of the pessimist, who
thenceforward fixes his hope and bends his energies to the realisation
of other and higher goods. In this he becomes an optimist, for this is
the pursuit, as Watts never ceases to teach, in which man can and does
attain his goal. Thus our prophet-painter, having seen and known and
felt all this, having tested it in the personal and intimate life,
brings to a triumphant close his great series, where positive rather
than negative teaching is given.
_The Great Realities_.--We have seen in "Chaos" primordial matter; we
have now from Watts' brush the origin of things on the metaphysical
side. In "The All-pervading," there sits the Spirit of the Universe,
holding in her lap the globe of the systems, the representation of the
last conclusions of philosophy. This mysterious picture is very low in
tone, conforming to Watts' rule to make the colouring suit the subject.
Here there is nothing hard or defined; the spirit of the universe is
merely suggested or hinted at, his great wings enclose all. The
elliptical form of this composition is seen again in "Death Crowning
Innocence" and "The Dweller in the Innermost," and the same expressive
indefiniteness and lowness of the colour tones. In the latter effort we
have the figure of Conscience, winged, dumb-faced and pensive, seated
within a glow of light. On her forehead is the shining star, and in her
lap the arrows which pierce through all disguises, and a trumpet that
proclaims peace to the world. Here, therefore, is the greatest reality
from the psychological side. We have also cosmical paintings
representing "Evolution," "Progress," the "Slumber of the Ages," and
"Destiny," all of them asking and answering; not indeed finally and
dogmatically, but as Watts desired that his pictures should do,
stimulating in the observer both the asking and the answering faculty.
In "Faith" we have a companion to "Hope." Wearied and saddened by
persecutions, she washes her blood-stained feet in a running stream, and
recognising the influence of Love in all the beauty of Nature, she feels
that the sword is not the best argument, and takes it off. The colouring
of this picture is rich and forcible, the maroon robe of the figure
being one of Watts' favourite attempts.
A satisfying picture of a little child emerging from the latest wave on
the shore of humanity's ocean, asks the question, _Whence and Whither_.
I reserve for "Hope" the final word (see Plate III.). If, as I said, the
optimism which is spiritual and ideal springs from the pessimism which
is material and actual, so too does Hope grow from the bosom of
Despair. This the picture shows. Crouching on the sphere of the world
sits the blindfold figure of a woman, bending her ear to catch the music
of one only string preserved on her lyre. When everything has failed,
there is Hope; and Hope looks, in Watts' teaching, for that which cannot
fail, but which is ever triumphant, namely, Love.
_The Love Series_.--According to Watts, Love steers the boat of
humanity, who is seen in one of his canvases tossed about and almost
shipwrecked. Love does not do this easily, but he does it. Love, as a
winged youth, also guides Life, a fragile maiden, up the rocky
steep--Life, that would else fail and fall. Violets spring where Love
has trod, and as they ascend to the mountain top the air becomes more
golden. This picture, "Love and Life" (see Plate V.) was painted four
times. "Love and Death," painted three times, represents the
irresistible figure of Death tenderly, yet firmly, entering a door where
we know lies the beloved one. This is an eternal theme, suggested, I
believe, by a temporal incident--the death of a young member of the
Prinsep family. Love vainly pushes back the imperious figure; the
protecting flowers are trodden down and the dove mourns; and with it all
we feel that though Love fears Death, yet Death respects Love. Just as
"Love and Death" are companion pictures and tell complementary truths,
so "Time, Death, and Judgment" is related to "Love Triumphant" (see
Plate VI.). In the one we see Time, represented by a mighty youth half
clad in a red cloak, striding along with great vigour. His companion,
whom he holds by the hand, is Death, the sad mother with weary, downcast
eye and outspread lap ready to receive her load; but with neither of
them is the final word, for Judgment, poised in the clouds, wields his
fiery sword of eternal law and holds the balance before his hidden face.
In "Love Triumphant" Love takes the place of, and transcends Judgment.
Time and Death having travelled together through the ages, are in the
end overthrown, and Love alone rises on immortal wings. Thus the stoical
painter reaches his greatest height--tells his best truth.
_The Death Series_.--As may be expected, Death has no terrors for the
fundamental Watts. Never once does Death look with hollow eyes and
sunken cheeks, or grasp with bony fingers at the living. In "Death
Crowning Innocence," as a mother she puts her halo on the infant
Innocence, whom she claims. Death holds a Court to which all must
go--priest, soldier, king, cripple, beautiful woman, and young child.
The lion must die, the civilisation be overthrown, wealth, fame, and
pride must be let go--so Watts shows in his "Court of Death"; all come
to the end of the book marked _Finis_. Death is calm and majestic, with
angel wings, and overhead are the figures of Silence and Mystery,
guarding, but partially revealing what is beyond the veil--sunrise and
the star of hope; while even in the lap of Death nestles a new-born
babe--the soul passing into new realms through the gates of Death.
Again, Death is _the Messenger_ who comes, not to terrify, but as an
ambassador to call the soul away from this alien land, quietly touching
the waiting soul with the finger-tips. In the beautiful "Paolo and
Francesca" the lovers are seen as Dante told of them; wafted along by
the infernal wind; of them he spoke:
"... Bard! Willingly
I would address these two together coming,
Which seem so light before the wind."
Francesca's reply to Dante is of Love and Death:
"Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,
Entangled him by that fair form...;
Love, that denial takes from none beloved,
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
That as thou seest, he yet deserts me not.
Love brought us to one death."
Watts has admirably caught the sweetness and sorrow of this situation in
his beautiful picture, which, again, is one of the very few he
considered finally "finished." It is almost a monochrome of blues and
greys.
In "Time and Oblivion," one of the earliest of the symbolical paintings,
Time is again the stalwart man of imperishable youth, while Oblivion,
another form of Death, spreads her mantle of darkness over all, claiming
all.
_Landscapes_.--Although Watts will ever be remembered for his
allegorical, biblical, and portrait painting, yet he was by no means
deficient in landscape art. Indeed, he carried into that branch of work
his peculiar personality. Not only do his landscapes depict beautiful
scenery in a fitting manner, joining atmosphere, sunshine, and colour,
but they convey in an extraordinary degree the mood of Nature and of
Man. "The Sphinx by Night" has an air of mystery about it that
immediately impresses the spectator, and tells him something that cannot
be communicated by words. The Italian and the Asiatic canvases by Watts,
"Florence," "Fiesole," "Correna," "Cos," and "Asia Minor," all induce
the feeling of repose and happiness, and the message that Nature sends
to her devotees comes sweetly and calmly in "The Rainbow," where we look
over an extensive valley from high ground, while heavy clouds and the
rainbow adorn the upper air. In "The Cumulus" we "see skyward great
cloud masses rolling, silently swelling and mixing." They recall perhaps
the memories of the child, to whom the mountains of the air are a
perpetual wonder. When in Savoy in 1888, Watts painted the Alps, again
with a cloudy sky and a rocky foreground. In this the quietude of the
scene penetrates the beholder. English landscape, to which all true
hearts return, was successfully depicted, both in form and spirit, by
Watts' "Landscape with Hayricks" (like the Brighton Downs), a quiet
view from the summit of a hillside, on which are seen some hayricks. But
perhaps the highest of them all is that very peaceful idyll named "All
the air a solemn stillness holds." It was a view from the garden of
Little Holland House. The time is sunset; a man and two horses are
wending their way home. There are farm buildings on the left, and a
thick wood in the background. In this one we feel how thoroughly Watts
uses all forms as expressions of his invisible moods. In purely
imaginative landscape, however, Watts struck his highest note. His
"Deluge" canvases are wonderful attempts; in "The Dove that returned in
the Evening," the bird is the only creature seen flying across the
dreary waste of waters, placid but for three long low waves. On the
horizon the artist has dimly suggested the ark of Noah. "Mount Ararat"
is especially worthy of mention among the landscapes.
[Illustration: PLATE VIII.--PRAYER
(At the Manchester Art Gallery)
This is one of the most simple and beautiful of Watts' early
works. The young woman is kneeling at the table, book in hand,
her mind absorbed in thoughts of reverence. Painted in 1860.]
Before Watts entered upon his series of great imaginative paintings he
had used realism for didactic purposes. In those days his work was less
rugged than in later times, and had a delicateness and refinement which
is seen to perfection in some of his earlier portraits. A few of these
efforts may be mentioned. "Study" is the bust of a girl, with long red
hair, looking upwards; it represents a beautiful combination of
spirituality and human affection. "The Rain it raineth every day" is a
picture of ennui and utter weariness, beautifully and sympathetically
expressed. The colouring is very brave. In "Prayer" (see Plate VIII.)
the simplicity of the treatment may lead any one to pass it by as
something slight and conventional, but it is perhaps one of the greatest
of this type where simplicity and spirituality are combined. In
"Choosing" Watts approached very near to the summit of simplicity and
charm. A golden-haired girl is choosing a camellia blossom; but where
all are so beautiful it is difficult for her to decide. Great interest
in this picture lies in the fact that it was painted in 1864, and was
drawn from Watts' young bride Miss Ellen Terry. One is almost tempted to
find in this picture the germ of allegory which grew to such heights in
the artist's later efforts.
_The Warrior Series_.--Watts, like Ruskin and many other of the
nineteenth-century philosophic artists, idealised warfare. His warriors
are not clad in khaki; they do not crouch behind muddy earthworks. They
are of the days before the shrapnel shell and Maxim gun; they wear
bright steel armour, wield the sword and lance, and by preference they
ride on horseback. Indeed, they are of no time or country, unless of the
house of Arthur and the land of Camelot.
We are thus able to understand the characteristic of Watts' warrior
pictures. The first is "Caractacus," the British chief; though no
Christian, he is the earliest of Watts' heroes. The second is the
beautiful "Sir Galahad," whose strength was as the strength of ten,
because his heart was pure. We see a knight standing bare-headed at the
side of his white horse, gazing with rapt eyes on the vision of the Holy
Grail, which in the gloom and solitude of the forest has suddenly dawned
on his sight. The features of young Arthur Prinsep, with his bushy hair,
who later became a general in the British army, can be detected in this
wonderful and simple picture. Its composition is like a stained-glass
window. It is of all Watts' perhaps the nearest to mysticism, and at the
same time it is an appeal to the young to be like Sir Galahad. The
original is in Eton College Chapel.
In 1863 followed "The Eve of Peace," in which we see a warrior of middle
age, much like Watts himself at that time, who has lost the passion for
warfare, sheathing his sword, glad to have it all over. The peacock
feather that is strewn on the floor of "The Court of Death," and lies by
the bier in "Sic Transit," is fastened to the warrior's casque.
"Aspiration," also taken from young Prinsep (1866), is a picture of a
young man in the dawn of life's battle, who, wishing to be a
standard-bearer, looks out across the plain. He sees into the great
possibilities of human life, and the ardent spirit of life is sobered by
the burden of responsibilities. "Watchman, what of the Night?" is
another wonderful composition, representing a figure with long hair,
clad in armour, looking out into the darkness of the night, with his
hand grasping the hilt of the sword. The colour, low in tone, and the
whole composition, indicate doubt and yet faith. Ellen Terry was the
model for this painting.
"The Condottiere" represents the fighting spirit of the Middle Ages.
This soldier is, like the others, clad in armour, and is not likely to
have a vision of the Holy Grail. His features represent the
determination and vigour which were required of him in those ferocious
days. "The Red Cross Knight accompanying Una" is a charming picture,
representing an incident in Spenser's "Faëry Queen," but the palm must
be given to "The Happy Warrior," who is depicted at the moment of death,
his head falling back, and his helmet unloosed, catching a glimpse of
some angelic face, who speaks to him in terms of comfort and of peace.
This picture, of all the others, shows how Watts has insisted on
carrying to the very highest point of idealism the terrible activities
of warfare:
"This, the Happy Warrior, this is he,
That every man in arms should wish to be."
He sent a copy, the original of which is in the Munich Gallery, to Lord
Dufferin, whose son was killed in the South African War, and he declares
that many bereaved mothers have thanked him for the inspiration and
comfort it has brought to them.
Watts' pictures are widely distributed; a roomful may be seen at the
Tate Gallery, Millbank, S.W. Nearly all the portraits of public men are
at the National Portrait Gallery, Trafalgar Square, London. There is a
portrait of Thomas Carlyle in the South Kensington Museum, three or four
pictures at the Manchester Corporation Gallery, and one at the Leicester
Art Gallery. There are also several of Watts' best pictures in a gallery
attached to his country house at Compton in Surrey; while his fresco
"Justice" can be seen at the Benchers' Hall, Lincoln's Inn.
Watts was conscious of the benefit he had received from the great men
who had preceded him, and in his best moments so essentially humble,
that in his last will and testament, and the letters of gift, he rises
to the great height of artistic patriotism which always appeared to him
in the light of a supreme duty.
The former document has the following phrases: "I bequeath all my
studies and works to any provincial gallery or galleries in Great
Britain or Ireland, which my executors shall in their discretion select,
and to be distributed between such galleries." This Will is dated
November 1, 1899, and relates to such works as had not already been
disposed of. His great gift to the nation was made in 1897, accompanied
by a characteristic letter in which he says:
"You can have the pictures any time after next Sunday. I have
never regarded them as mine, but never expected they would be
placed anywhere until after my death, and only see now my
presumption and their defects and shrink from the consequences
of my temerity! I should certainly like to have them placed
together, but of course can make no conditions. One or two are
away, and I am a little uncertain about the sending of some
others; if you could spare a moment I should like to consult
you."
A few weeks later, following a letter from the Keeper of the National
Gallery, he writes as follows:
"I beg to thank you and through you the Trustees and Director
of the National Gallery for the flattering intention of
placing the tablet you speak of, but while returning grateful
thanks for the intention of doing me this honour I should like
it to be felt that I have in no way desired anything but the
recognition that my object in work, and the offering of it,
has only been the hope of spending my time and exercising my
experience in a worthy manner, leaving to time further
judgment. Most certainly I desire that my pictures should be
seen to advantage, and have a good effect as an encouragement
to artists of stronger fibre and greater vitality, to pursue
if only occasionally a similar direction and object."
At the end of a long life by no means devoid of mistakes and
disappointments, it would seem as though Watts attained to his desires.
The man has passed away, while the witness of his aspirations remains.
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They will tell you the peers understand, the bishops understand,
the coronating archbishop has his tongue in his cheek. They all
understand--men of the world together. The King understands, a most
admirable gentleman, who submits to these traditional things, but who
admits his preference is for the simple, pure delight of the incognito,
for being “plain Mr. Jones.”
It may be so. Though the psychologist will tell you that a man who
behaves consistently as though he believed in a thing, will end in
believing it. Assuredly whatever these others do, the New Republican
must understand. In his inmost soul there must be no loyalty or
submission to any king or colour, save only if it conduces to the
service of the future of the race. In the New Republic all kings are
provisional, if, indeed--and this I shall discuss in a later paper--they
can be regarded as serviceable at all.
And just as kingship is a secondary and debatable thing to the New
Republican, to every man, that is, whom the spirit of the new knowledge
has taken for its work, so also are the loyalties of nationality, and
all our local and party adhesions.
Much that passes for patriotism is no more than a generalized jealousy
rather gorgeously clad. Amidst the collapse of the old Individualistic
Humanitarianism, the Rights of Man, Human Equality, and the rest of
those broad generalizations that served to keep together so many men of
good intention in the age that has come to its end, there has been much
hasty running to obvious shelters, and many men have been forced to take
refuge under this echoing patriotism--for want of a better gathering
place. It is like an incident during an earthquake, when men who have
abandoned a cleft fortress will shelter in a drinking bothy. But the
very upheavals that have shattered the old fastnesses of altruistic
men, will be found presently to be taking the shape of a new gathering
place--and of this the New Republic presents an early guess and
anticipation. I do not see how men, save in the most unexpected
emergency, can be content to accept such an artificial convention as
modern patriotism for one moment. On the one hand there are the patriots
of nationality who would have us believe that the miscellany of European
squatters in the Transvaal are one nation and those in Cape Colony
another, and on the other the patriots of Empire who would have me, for
example, hail as my fellow-subjects and collaborators in man-making a
host of Tamil-speaking, Tamil-thinking Dravadians, while separating me
from every English-speaking, English-thinking person who lives south of
the Great Lakes. So long as men are content to work in the grooves set
for them by dead men, to derive all their significances from the past,
to accept whatever is as right and to drive along before the compulsions
of these acquiescences, they may do so. But directly they take to
themselves the New Republican idea, directly they realize that life is
something more than passing the time, that it is constructive with its
direction in the future, then these things slip from them as Christian’s
burthen fell from him at the very outset of his journey. Until grave
cause has been shown to the contrary, there is every reason why all men
who speak the same language, think the same literature, and are akin
in blood and spirit, and who have arrived at the great constructive
conception that so many minds nowadays are reaching, should entirely
disregard these old separations. If the old traditions do no harm
there is no reason to touch them, any more than there is to abolish the
boundary between this ancient and invincible kingdom of Kent in which I
write and that extremely inferior country, England, which was conquered
by the Normans and brought under the feudal system. But so soon as these
old traditions obstruct sound action, so soon as it is necessary to
be rid of them, we must be prepared to sacrifice our archaeological
emotions ruthlessly and entirely.
And these repudiations extend also to the political parties that
struggle to realize themselves within the forms of our established
state. There is not in Great Britain, and I understand there is not in
America, any party, any section, any group, any single politician even,
based upon the manifest trend and purpose of life as it appears in the
modern view. The necessities of continuity in public activity and of a
glaring consistency in public profession, have so far prevented any such
fundamental reconstruction as the new generation requires. One hears of
Liberty, of Compromise, of Imperial Destinies and Imperial Unity,
one hears of undying loyalty to the Memory of Mr. Gladstone and the
inalienable right of Ireland to a separate national existence. One
hears, too, of the sacred principle of Free Trade, of Empires and
Zollvereins, and the Rights of the Parent to blockade the education of
his children, but one hears nothing of the greater end. At the best
all the objects of our political activity can be but means to that end,
their only claim to our recognition can be their adequacy to that
end, and none of these vociferated “cries,” these party labels, these
programme items, are ever propounded to us in that way. I cannot see
how, in England at any rate, a serious and perfectly honest man, holding
as true that ampler view of life I have suggested, can attach himself
loyally to any existing party or faction. At the utmost he may find
their faction-fighting may be turned for a time towards his remoter
ends. These parties derive from that past when the new view of life had
yet to establish itself, they carry faded and obliterated banners that
the glare and dust of conflict, the vote-storms of great campaigns, have
robbed long since of any colour of reality they once possessed. They
express no creative purpose now, whatever they did in their inception,
they point towards no constructive ideals. Essentially they are things
for the museum or the bonfire, whatever momentary expediency may
hold back the New Republican from an unqualified advocacy of such a
destination. The old party fabrics are no more than dead rotting things,
upon which a great tangle of personal jealousies, old grudges, thorny
nicknames, prickly memories, family curses, Judas betrayals and sacred
pledges, a horrible rubbish thicket, maintains a saprophytic vitality.
It is quite possible I misjudge the thing altogether. Sir Henry
Campbell-Bannerman, for example, may hide the profoundest and
most wide-reaching aims beneath his superficial effect of utter
superficiality. His impersonation of an amiable, spirited,
self-conscious, land-owning gentleman with a passion for justice in
remote places and a whimsical dislike of motor cars in his immediate
neighbourhood, may veil the operations of a stupendous intelligence bent
upon the regeneration of the world. It may do, but if it does, it is a
very amazing and purposeless impersonation. I at any rate do not believe
that it does. I do not believe that he or any other Liberal leader or
any Conservative minister has any comprehensive aim at all--as we of the
new generation measure comprehensiveness. These parties, and the phrases
of party exposition--in America just as in England--date from the
days of the limited outlook. They display no consciousness of the new
dissent. They are absorbed in the long standing game, the getting in,
the turning out, the contests and governments, that has just about the
same relation to the new perception of affairs, to the real drift of
life, as the game of cricket with the wheel as a wicket would have to
the destinies of a ship. They find their game highly interesting and
no doubt they play it with remarkable wit, skill and spirit, but
they entirely disregard the increasing number of passengers who are
concerning themselves with the course and destination of the ship.
Those particular passengers in the figure, present the New Republic. It
is a dissension, an inquiry, it is the vague unconsolidated matter for a
new direction. “We who are young,” says the spirit of the New Republic,
“we who are in earnest can no more compass our lives under these
old kingships and loyalties, under these old leaders and these old
traditions, constitutions and pledges, with their party liabilities,
their national superstitions, their rotting banners and their
accumulating legacy of feuds and lies, than we can pretend we are indeed
impassioned and wholly devoted subjects of King Edward, spending our
lives in the service of his will. It is not that we have revolted
from these things, it is not that we have grown askew to them and that
patching and amendment will serve our need; it is that we have travelled
outside them altogether--almost inadvertently, but quite beyond any
chance of return to a simple acceptance again. We are no more disposed
to call ourselves Liberals or Conservatives and to be stirred to party
passion at the clash of these names, than we are to fight again the
battles of the Factio Albata or the Factio Prasina. These current
dramas, these current conflicts seem scarcely less factitious. Men
without faith may be content to spend their lives for things only half
believed in, and for causes that are contrived. But that is not our
quality. We want reality because we have faith, we seek the beginning of
realism in social and political life, we seek it and we are resolved to
find it.”
So we attempt to give a general expression to the forces that are new
at this time, to render something at least of the spirit of the New
Republic in a premature and experimental utterance. It is, at any rate,
a spirit that finds itself out of intimacy and co-ordination with all
the older movements of the world, that sees all pre-existing formulae
and political constitutions and political parties and organizations
rather as instruments or obstacles than as guiding lines and precedents
for its new developing will, its will which will carry it at last
irresistibly to the conscious and deliberate making of the future of
man. “We are here to get better births and a better result from the
births we get; each one of us is going to set himself immediately to
that, using whatever power he finds to his hand,” such is the form its
will must take. And such being its will and spirit these papers will
address themselves comprehensively to the problem, What will the New
Republic do? All the rest of this series will be a discussion of the
forces that go to the making of man, and how far and how such a New
Republic might seek to lay its hands upon them.
It is for the adversary to explain how presumptuous such an enterprise
must be. But presumption is ineradically interwoven with every beginning
that the world has ever seen. I venture to think that even to a reader
who does not accept or sympathize with the conception of this
New Republic, a general review of current movements and current
interpretations of morality from this new standpoint may be suggestive
and interesting. Assuredly it is only by some such general revision, if
not on these lines then on others, that a practicable way of escape is
to be found for any one, from that base and shifty opportunism in public
and social matters, that predominance of fluctuating aims and spiritless
conformities, in which so many of us, without any great positive
happiness at all to reward us for the sacrifice we are making, bury the
solitary talents of our lives.
II. THE PROBLEM OF THE BIRTH SUPPLY
Within the last minute seven new citizens were born into that great
English-speaking community which is scattered under various flags and
governments throughout the world. And according to the line of thought
developed in the previous paper we perceive that the real and ultimate
business, so far as this world goes, of every statesman, every social
organizer, every philanthropist, every business manager, every man
who lifts his head for a moment from the mean pursuit of his immediate
personal interests, from the gratification of his private desires, is,
as the first and immediate thing, to do his best for these new-comers,
to get the very best result, so far as his powers and activities can
contribute to it, from their undeveloped possibilities. And in the next
place, as a remoter, but perhaps finally more fundamental duty, he has
to inquire what may be done individually or collectively to raise the
standard and quality of the average birth. All the great concerns of
life work out with a very little analysis to that, even our wars, our
orgies of destruction, have, at the back of them, a claim, an intention,
however futile in its conception and disastrous in its consequences, to
establish a wider security, to destroy a standing menace, to open new
paths and possibilities, in the interest of the generations still
to come. One may present the whole matter in a simplified picture by
imagining all our statesmen, our philanthropists and public men, our
parties and institutions gathered into one great hall, and into this
hall a huge spout, that no man can stop, discharges a baby every eight
seconds. That is, I hold, a permissible picture of human life, and
whatever is not represented at all in that picture is a divergent and
secondary concern. Our success or failure with that unending stream of
babies is the measure of our civilization; every institution stands
or falls by its contribution to that result, by the improvement of the
children born, or by the improvement in the quality of births attained
under its influence.
To begin these speculations in logical order we must begin at the birth
point, we must begin by asking how much may we hope, now or at a later
time, to improve the supply of that raw material which is perpetually
dumped upon our hands? Can we raise, and if so, what can we do to raise
the quality of the average birth?
This speculation is as old at least as Plato, and as living as the seven
or eight babies born into the English-speaking world since the reader
began this Paper. The conclusion that if we could prevent or discourage
the inferior sorts of people from having children, and if we could
stimulate and encourage the superior sorts to increase and multiply, we
should raise the general standard of the race, is so simple, so obvious,
that in every age I suppose there have been voices asking in amazement,
why the thing is not done? It is so usual to answer that it is not done
on account of popular ignorance, public stupidity, religious prejudice
or superstition, that I shall not apologize for giving some little
space here to the suggestion that in reality it is not done for quite a
different reason.
We blame the popular mind overmuch. Earnest but imperfect men, with
honest and reasonable but imperfect proposals for bettering the world,
are all too apt to raise this bitter cry of popular stupidity, of the
sheep-like quality of common men. An unjustifiable persuasion of
moral and intellectual superiority is one of the last infirmities of
innovating minds. We may be right, but we must be provably, demonstrably
and overpoweringly right before we are justified in calling the
dissentient a fool. I am one of those who believe firmly in the
invincible nature of truth, but a truth that is badly put is not a
truth, but an infertile hybrid lie. Before we men of the study blame the
general body of people for remaining unaffected by reforming proposals
of an almost obvious advantage, it would be well if we were to change
our standpoint and examine our machinery at the point of application.
A rock-drilling machine may be excellently invented and in the most
perfect order except for a want of hardness in the drill, and yet there
will remain an unpierced rock as obdurate as the general public to so
many of our innovations.
I believe that if a canvass of the entire civilized world were put to
the vote in this matter, the proposition that it is desirable that the
better sort of people should intermarry and have plentiful children,
and that the inferior sort of people should abstain from multiplication,
would be carried by an overwhelming majority. They might disagree with
Plato’s methods, [Footnote: _The Republic_, Bk. V.] but they would
certainly agree to his principle. And that this is not a popular error
Mr. Francis Galton has shown. He has devoted a very large amount of
energy and capacity to the vivid and convincing presentation of this
idea, and to its courageous propagation. His Huxley Lecture to the
Anthropological Institute in 1901 [Footnote: _Nature_, vol. lxiv.
p. 659.] puts the whole matter as vividly as it ever can be put. He
classifies humanity about their average in classes which he indicates
by the letters R S T U V rising above the average and r s t u v falling
below, and he saturates the whole business in quantitative colour.
Indeed, Mr. Galton has drawn up certain definite proposals. He has
suggested that “noble families” should collect “fine specimens of
humanity” around them, employing these fine specimens in menial
occupations of a light and comfortable sort, that will leave a
sufficient portion of their energies free for the multiplication of
their superior type. “Promising young couples” might be given “healthy
and convenient houses at low rentals,” he suggests, and no doubt it
could be contrived that they should pay their rent partly or entirely
per stone of family annually produced. And he has also proposed that
“diplomas” should be granted to young men and women of high class--big
S and upward--and that they should be encouraged to intermarry young. A
scheme of “dowries” for diploma holders would obviously be the simplest
thing in the world. And only the rules for identifying your great S T U
and V in adolescence, are wanting from the symmetrical completeness of
his really very noble-spirited and high-class scheme.
At a more popular level Mrs. Victoria Woodhull Martin has battled
bravely in the cause of the same foregone conclusion. The work
of telling the world what it knows to be true will never want
self-sacrificing workers. The _Humanitarian_ was her monthly organ of
propaganda. Within its cover, which presented a luminiferous stark
ideal of exemplary muscularity, popular preachers, popular bishops, and
popular anthropologists vied with titled ladies of liberal outlook in
the service of this conception. There was much therein about the Rapid
Multiplication of the Unfit, a phrase never properly explained, and I
must confess that the transitory presence of this instructive little
magazine in my house, month after month (it is now, unhappily, dead),
did much to direct my attention to the gaps and difficulties that
intervene between the general proposition and its practical application
by sober and honest men. One took it up and asked time after time, “Why
should there be this queer flavour of absurdity and pretentiousness
about the thing?” Before the _Humanitarian_ period I was entirely in
agreement with the _Humanitarian’s_ cause. It seemed to me then that to
prevent the multiplication of people below a certain standard, and to
encourage the multiplication of exceptionally superior people, was the
only real and permanent way of mending the ills of the world. I think
that still. In that way man has risen from the beasts, and in that way
men will rise to be over-men. In those days I asked in amazement
why this thing was not done, and talked the usual nonsense about the
obduracy and stupidity of the world. It is only after a considerable
amount of thought and inquiry that I am beginning to understand why
for many generations, perhaps, nothing of the sort can possibly be done
except in the most marginal and tentative manner.
If to-morrow the whole world were to sign an unanimous round-robin
to Mr. Francis Galton and Mrs. Victoria Woodhull Martin, admitting
absolutely their leading argument that it _is_ absurd to breed our
horses and sheep and improve the stock of our pigs and fowls, while we
leave humanity to mate in the most heedless manner, and if, further,
the whole world, promising obedience, were to ask these two to gather
together a consultative committee, draw up a scheme of rules, and start
forthwith upon the great work of improving the human stock as fast as it
can be done, if it undertook that marriages should no longer be made in
heaven or earth, but only under licence from that committee, I venture
to think that, after a very brief epoch of fluctuating legislation, this
committee, except for an extremely short list of absolute prohibitions,
would decide to leave matters almost exactly as they are now; it would
restore love and private preference to their ancient authority and
freedom, at the utmost it would offer some greatly qualified advice, and
so released, it would turn its attention to those flaws and gaps in our
knowledge that at present render these regulations no more than a theory
and a dream.
The first difficulty these theorists ignore is this: we are, as a matter
of fact, not a bit clear what points to breed for and what points to
breed out.
The analogy with the breeder of cattle is a very misleading one. He
has a very simple ideal, to which he directs the entire pairing of his
stock. He breeds for beef, he breeds for calves and milk, he breeds
for a homogeneous docile herd. Towards that ideal he goes simply and
directly, slaughtering and sparing, regardless entirely of any divergent
variation that may arise beneath his control. A young calf with an
incipient sense of humour, with a bright and inquiring disposition, with
a gift for athleticism or a quaintly-marked hide, has no sort of chance
with him at all on that account. He can throw these proffered gifts
of nature aside without hesitation. Which is just what our theoretical
breeders of humanity cannot venture to do. They do not want a
homogeneous race in the future at all. They want a rich interplay of
free, strong, and varied personalities, and that alters the nature of
the problem absolutely.
This the reader may dispute. He may admit the need of variety, but he
may argue that this variety must arise from a basis of common endowment.
He may say that in spite of the complication introduced by the
consideration that a divergent variation from one ideal may be a
divergence towards another ideal, there remain certain definable points,
that could be bred for universally, for all that.
What are they?
There will be little doubt he will answer “Health.” After that probably
he may say “Beauty.” In addition the reader of Mr. Galton’s _Hereditary
Genius_ will probably say, “ability,” “capacity,” “genius,” and
“energy.” The reader of Doctor Nordau will add “sanity.” And the
reader of Mr. Archdall Reid will round up the list with “immunity” from
dipsomania and all contagious diseases. “Let us mark our human beings,”
the reader of that way of thinking will suggest, “let us give marks for
‘health,’ for ‘ability,’ for various sorts of specific immunity and so
forth, and let us weed out those who are low in the scale and multiply
those who stand high. This will give us a straight way to practical
amelioration, and the difficulty you are trying to raise,” he urges,
“vanishes forthwith.”
It would, if these points were really points, if “beauty,” “capacity,”
“health,” and “sanity” were simple and uniform things. Unfortunately
they are not simple, and with that fact a host of difficulties arise.
Let me take first the most simple and obvious case of “beauty.” If
beauty were a simple thing, it would be possible to arrange human beings
in a simple scale, according to whether they had more or less of this
simple quality--just as one can do in the case of what are perhaps
really simple and breedable qualities--height or weight. This person,
one might say, is at eight in the scale of beauty, and this at ten,
and this at twenty-seven. But it complicates the case beyond the
possibilities of such a scale altogether when one begins to consider
that there are varieties and types of beauty having very wide
divergences and made up of a varying number of elements in dissimilar
proportions. There is, for example, the flaxen, kindly beauty of the
Dutch type, the dusky Jewess, the tall, fair Scandinavian, the dark and
brilliant south Italian, the noble Roman, the dainty Japanese--to name
no others. Each of these types has its peculiar and incommensurable
points, and within the limits of each type you will find a hundred
divergent, almost unanalyzable, styles, a beauty of expression, a beauty
of carriage, a beauty of reflection, a beauty of repose, arising each
from a quite peculiar proportion of parts and qualities, and having no
definable relation at all to any of the others. If we were to imagine a
human appearance as made up of certain elements, a, b, c, d, e, f, etc.,
then we might suppose that beauty in one case was attained by a certain
high development of a and f, in another by a certain fineness of c and
d, in another by a delightfully subtle ratio of f and b.
A, b, c, d, e, F, etc.
a, b, _c_, _d_, e, f, etc.
a, _b_, c, d, e, _F_, etc.,
might all, for example, represent different types of beauty. Beauty
is neither a simple nor a constant thing; it is attainable through a
variety of combinations, just as the number 500 can be got by adding or
multiplying together a great variety of numerical arrangements. Two long
numerical formulae might both simplify out to 500, but half the length
of one truncated and put end on to the truncated end of the other, might
give a very different result. It is quite conceivable that you might
select and wed together all the most beautiful people in the world and
find that in nine cases out of ten you had simply produced mediocre
offspring or offspring below mediocrity. Out of the remaining tenth a
great majority would be beautiful simply by “taking after” one or other
parent, simply through the predominance, the _prepotency,_ of one parent
over the other, a thing that might have happened equally well if the
other parent was plain. The first sort of beauty (in my three formulae)
wedding the third sort of beauty, might simply result in a rather ugly
excess of F, and again the first sort might result from a combination of
a, b, c, d, e, _F_, etc.,
and
_A_, b, c, d, e, f, etc.,
neither of which arrangements, very conceivably, may be beautiful at all
when it is taken alone. In this respect, at any rate, personal value and
reproductive value may be two entirely different things.
Now what the elements of personal aspect really are, what these
elements a, b, c, d, e, f, etc., may be, we do not know with any sort
of exactness. Possibly height, weight, presence of dark pigment in the
hair, whiteness of skin, presence of hair upon the body, are simple
elements in inheritance that will follow Galton’s arithmetical treatment
of heredity with some exactness. But we are not even sure of that. The
height of one particular person may be due to an exceptional length of
leg and neck, of another to an abnormal length of the vertebral bodies
of the backbone; the former may have a rather less than ordinary
backbone, the latter a stunted type of limb, and an intermarriage may
just as conceivably (so far as our present knowledge goes) give the
backbone of the first and the legs of the second as it may a very tall
person.
The fact is that in this matter of beauty and breeding for beauty we are
groping in a corner where science has not been established. No doubt
the corner is marked out as a part of the “sphere of influence” of
anthropology, but there is not the slightest indication of an effective
occupation among these raiding considerations and uncertain facts.
Until anthropology produces her Daltons and Davys we must fumble in this
corner, just as the old alchemists fumbled for centuries before the dawn
of chemistry. Our utmost practice here must be empirical. We do not know
the elements of what we have, the human characteristics we are working
upon to get that end. The sentimentalized affinities of young persons in
their spring are just as likely to result in the improvement of the
race in this respect as the whole science of anthropology in its present
state of evolution.
I have suggested that “beauty” is a term applied to a miscellany of
synthetic results compounded of diverse elements in diverse proportions;
and I have suggested that one can no more generalize about it in
relation to inheritance with any hope of effective application than one
can generalize about, say, “lumpy substances” in relation to chemical
combination. By reasoning upon quite parallel lines nearly every
characteristic with which Mr. Galton deals in his interesting and
suggestive but quite inconclusive works, can be demonstrated to consist
in a similar miscellany. He speaks of “eminence,” of “success,” of
“ability,” of “zeal,” and “energy,” for example, and except for the
last two items I would submit that these qualities, though of enormous
personal value, are of no practical value in inheritance whatever; that
to wed “ability” to “ability” may breed something less than mediocrity,
and that “ability” is just as likely or just as unlikely to be prepotent
and to assert itself in descent with the most casually selected
partner as it is with one picked with all the knowledge, or rather
pseudo-knowledge, anthropology in its present state can give us.
When, however, we turn to “zeal” or “energy” or “go,” we do seem to be
dealing with a simpler and more transmissible thing. Let us assume that
in this matter there is a wide range of difference that may be arranged
in a direct and simple scale in quantitative relation to the gross
output of action of different human beings. One passes from the
incessant employment of such a being as Gladstone at the one extreme,
a loquacious torrent of interests and achievements, to the extreme of
phlegmatic lethargy on the other. Call the former a high energetic and
the latter low. Quite possibly it might be found that we could breed
“high energetics.” But before we did so we should have to consider
very gravely that the “go” and “energy” of a man have no ascertainable
relation to many other extremely important considerations. Your
energetic person may be moral or immoral, an unqualified egotist or as
public spirited as an ant, sane, or a raving lunatic. Your phlegmatic
person may ripen resolves and bring out truths, with the incomparable
clearness of a long-exposed, slowly developed, slowly printed
photograph. A man who would exchange the slow gigantic toil of that
sluggish and deliberate person, Charles Darwin, for the tumultuous
inconsequence and (as some people think it) the net mischief of a
Gladstone, would no doubt be prepared to substitute a Catherine-wheel
in active eruption for the watch of less adventurous men. But before
we could induce the community as a whole to make a similar exchange, he
would have to carry on a prolonged and vigorous propaganda.
For my own part--and I write as an ignorant man in a realm where
ignorance prevails--I am inclined to doubt the simplicity and
homogeneity even of this quality of “energy” or “go.” A person without
restraint, without intellectual conscience, without critical faculty,
may write and jabber and go to and fro and be here and there, simply
because every impulse is obeyed so soon as it arises. Another person
may be built upon an altogether larger scale of energy, but may be
deliberate, concentrated, and fastidious, bent rather upon truth and
permanence than upon any immediate quantitative result, and may appear
to any one but an extremely penetrating critic, as inferior in energy to
the former. So far as our knowledge goes at present, what is popularly
known as “energy” or “go” is just as likely to be a certain net
preponderance of a varied miscellany of impulsive qualities over a
varied miscellany of restraints and inhibitions, as it is to prove a
simple indivisible quality transmissible intact. We are so profoundly
ignorant in these matters, so far from anything worthy of the name of
science, that one view is just as permissible and just as untrustworthy
as the other.
Even the qualification of “health” is not sufficient. A thoughtless
person may say with the most invincible air, “Parents should, at any
rate, be healthy,” but that alone is only a misleading vague formula for
good intentions. In the first place, there is every reason to believe
that transitory ill-health in the parent is of no consequence at all
to the offspring. Neither does acquired constitutional ill-health
necessarily transmit to a child; it may or it may not react upon the
child’s nutrition and training, but that is a question to consider
later. It is quite conceivable, it is highly probable, that there are
hereditary forms of ill-health, and that they may be eliminated from the
human lot by discreet and restrained pairing, but what they are and
what are the specific conditions of their control we do not know. And
furthermore, we are scarcely more certain that the condition of “perfect
health” in one human being is the same as the similarly named condition
in another, than we are that the beauty of one type is made up of the
same essential elements as the beauty of another. Health is a balance, a
balance of blood against nerve, of digestion against secretion, of heart
against brain. A heart of perfect health and vigour put into the body
of a perfectly healthy man who is built upon a slighter scale than that
heart, will swiftly disorganize the entire fabric, and burst its way
to a haemorrhage in lung perhaps, or brain, or wherever the slightest
relative weakening permits. The “perfect” health of a negro may be
a quite dissimilar system of reactions to the “perfect health” of a
vigorous white; you may blend them only to create an ailing mass of
physiological discords. “Health,” just as much as these other things,
is, for this purpose of marriage diplomas and the like, a vague,
unserviceable synthetic quality. It serves each one of us for our
private and conversational needs, but in this question it is not hard
enough and sharp--enough for the thing we want it to do. Brought to the
service of this fine and complicated issue it breaks down altogether. We
do not know enough. We have not analyzed enough nor penetrated enough.
There is no science yet, worthy of the name, in any of these
things. [Footnote: This idea of attempting to define the elements in
inheritance, although it is absent from much contemporary discussion,
was pretty evidently in mind in the very striking researches of the Abbé
Mendel to which Mr. Bateson--with a certain intemperance of manner--has
recently called attention. (Bateson, _Mendel’s Principles of Heredity_,
Cambridge University Press, 1902.)]
These considerations should at least suffice to demonstrate the entire
impracticability of Mr. Galton’s two suggestions. Moreover, this idea of
picking out high-scale individuals in any particular quality or group of
qualities and breeding them, is not the way of nature at all. Nature
is not a breeder; she is a reckless coupler and--she slays. It was a
popular misconception of the theory of the Survival of the Fittest,
a misconception Lord Salisbury was at great pains to display to the
British Association in 1894, that the average of a species in any
respect is raised by the selective inter-breeding of the individuals
above the average. Lord Salisbury was no doubt misled, as most people
who share his mistake have been misled, by the grammatical error of
employing the Survival of the Fittest for the Survival of the Fitter, in
order to escape a scarcely ambiguous ambiguity. But the use of the
word “Survival” should have sufficed to indicate that the real point of
application of the force by which Nature modifies species and raises
the average in any quality, lies not in selective breeding, but in the
disproportionately numerous deaths of the individuals below the average.
And even the methods of the breeder of cattle, if they are to produce a
permanent alteration in the species of cattle, must consist not only
in breeding the desirable but in either killing the undesirable, or
at least--what is the quintessence, the inner reality of death--in
preventing them from breeding
|
happiness and peace from their dwelling. She urged the duty of
forgiveness, and pleaded hard for her sister; but, though the hours
wore away, she made no impression upon him. Utterly unmindful of
her words, he did not either interrupt her or fall into his former
violence. On the contrary, he seemed involved in some intricate
calculation--counting on his fingers, or casting up lines of imaginary
figures upon the coverlit.
Sarah, heart-broken, and silently weeping, retreated to the table, and
again, after turning the fire, betook her to her solace--the precious
volume that never fails to afford consolation to the afflicted. She
read a few passages, and then, though she looked upon the book, her
mind wandered. She recalled the happy days of her childhood, before
her father, by the extraordinary and most unexpected bequest of a
distant relative, became possessed of property to what extent she
could form no idea. She knew that this relative had quarrelled with
the heir-at-law, and left all to one he had never seen. This bequest
had closed up her father's heart; instead of being a blessing, so
perfectly avaricious had he grown, that it was a curse. Previously, he
had been an industrious farmer; and though a thrifty one, had evinced
none of the bitterness of avarice, none of its hardness or tyranny.
He could then sleep at nights, permit his wife and children to share
their frugal stores with those who needed, troll "Ere around the huge
oak," while his wife accompanied him on the spinnet, and encourage
his daughters to wed men in what was their then sphere of life, rather
than those who might not consider the gentle blood they inherited, and
their superior education, a sufficient set-off to their limited means
and humble station. Suddenly, riches poured in upon him: his eldest
daughter, true to the faith she plighted, would marry her humble
lover, and her father's subsequent harshness to her favourite
child broke the mother's heart. Sarah not only had less firmness of
character than her sister, but loved her father more devotedly, and
gave up the affection of her young heart to please him. His narrow
nature could not understand the sacrifice: and when her cheek faded,
and her really beautiful face contracted into the painful expression
of that pining melancholy which has neither words nor tears--to lull
his sympathy, he muttered to himself, "good girl, _she_ shall have
_all_ I have."
No human passion grows with so steady, so imperceptible, yet so
rampant a growth as avarice. It takes as many shapes as Proteus,
and may be called, above all others, the vice of middle life, that
soddens into the gangrene of old age; gaining strength by vanquishing
all virtues and generous emotions, it is a creeping, sly, keen,
persevering, insidious sin, assuming various forms, to cheat even
itself; for it shames to name itself unto itself; a cowardly,
darkness-loving sin, never daring to look human nature in the face;
full of lean excuses for self-imposed starvation, only revelling
in the impurity and duskiness of its own shut-up heart. At last the
joy-bells ring its knell, while it crawls into eternity like a vile
reptile, leaving a slimy track upon the world.
The inmates of the mansion enclosed in its old court-yard had long
ceased to attract the observation of their neighbours. Sometimes
Sarah called at the butcher's, but she exchanged smiles or greetings
with few; and the baker rang the rusty bell twice a-week, which was
answered by their only servant. When Mr. Bond first took possession
of the manor-house, he hired five domestics, and everybody said they
could not do with so few; and there were two men to look after the
gardens; but after his daughter's elopement and his wife's death,
three were discharged, and he let the lands and gardens; and then
another went, and Sarah felt the loneliness so great, that she made
the remaining one sleep in her own room. The house had been frequently
attacked; once, in a fit of despair, her brother-in-law had forced
his way in the night to the old man's side, and but for her prompt
interference, murder would have been done. No wonder, then, that her
shattered nerves trembled as she watched the shortening candle, and
heard the raving of the wind, saw the spectral shadows the broken
plumes that ornamented the canopy of the bed cast upon the fantastic
walls, _felt_ that _his_ hour was at hand, and feared that "he would
die and make no sign;" still, while those waving fantasies passing
to and fro through her active but weakened mind, made her tremble
in every limb, and ooze at every pore; and though unable to read
on steadily, her eyes continued fixed upon the book which her hand
grasped, with the same feeling that made those of old cling to the
altar of their God for sanctuary. Suddenly her father called--and she
started as from a dream--"Sarah!"
She hastened to his side; "Dear father, what do you want?"
"Child, the room is dark; and you had so much light just now. All
is dark. Where are you? But it was better, after all, to put out the
light; wilful waste makes"--
Before the miser had concluded his proverb, the light of _his_
existence was extinguished for ever!
CHAPTER II.
Several weeks elapsed before Sarah Bond recovered sufficiently from
the shock, ay, and genuine grief, occasioned by her father's death,
so as to investigate her affairs; the hardness and the tyranny she
had borne for so many years had become habitual, and her own will was
absolutely paralysed by inaction. Jacob Bond had always treated his
daughter as if she were a baby, and it was some time before she could
collect herself sufficiently to calculate upon her future plans. She
had no friends; and the sister to whom, despite her father's cruel
words, her heart clung so fondly, was far from her, she knew not
where. The mourning for herself and her servant was ordered from a
neighbouring shop, with a carelessness as to expense which made people
say that Sarah was of habits different from her father.
The rector and curate of the parish both called, but she shrunk
from strangers. The very first act, however, of her liberty, was to
take a pew at church, a whole pew, to herself, which she ordered to
be curtained all round. Some said this indicated pride, some said
ostentation; but it was simply shyness. And soon after she placed in
the aisle a white marble tablet, "To the memory of Jacob Bond, who
died in the seventy-eighth year of his age, deeply lamented by his
sorrowing daughter."
Some ladies connected with a society for clothing the poor, called
upon and explained to her their object; she poked five old guineas
into the hands of the spokeswoman, but forbade the insertion of her
donation in the visitor's book. During the following week she had
numerous applications from various charitable bodies, to whom she gave
generously, they said, while she reproached herself with narrowness;
to all, however, she positively refused to become a yearly subscriber;
and when closely urged by the rector to be one of the patrons of his
school, she answered, "Sir, my father received his property suddenly,
and I may be as suddenly deprived of it. I will give, but I will not
promise." Her impulse was to give, her habit to withhold.
She added one more servant to her establishment; and as she did not
send out cards returning thanks for the 'inquiries,' which increased
daily, Sarah Bond was a very lonely woman; for though some, from
curiosity, others from want of occupation, others, again, from the
unfortunately universal desire to form acquaintance with the rich,
would have been glad, now the solitary old miser was gone, to make
fellowship with his gentle-looking and wealthy daughter, yet her
reserve and quietness prevented the fulfilment of their wishes. Weeks
and months rolled on; the old house had been repaired and beautified.
Mr. Cramp, Sarah's law agent and'man of business,' advised her to let
the house, of which she occupied about as much as a wren could fill of
the nest of an eagle; and, strangely enough, finding that the house
of her childhood was to let, she took it, removing thither all the
furniture which her father made her promise never to part with.
The ceiling of the best bed-room was obliged to be raised to admit
the lofty bed with its plumes, and the spinnet was assigned a very
comfortable corner in a parlour, where the faded stately chairs
and gorgeous furniture formed a curious contrast to the bright
neatly-papered walls and drugget-covered floor; for in all matters
connected with her own personal expenses, Sarah Bond was exceedingly
frugal.
_After_ her removal, though shy and strange as ever, still she
_looked_ kind things to her rich, and _did_ kind things to her poor
neighbours, only in a strange, unusual way; and her charity was given
by fits mid starts--not continuously. She moved silently about her
garden, and evinced much care for her plants and flowers. Closely
economical from long habit, rather than inclination, her domestic
arrangements were strangely at variance with what could not be called
public gifts, because she used every effort in her power to conceal
her munificence. She did not, it is true, think and calculate, how the
greatest good could be accomplished. She knew but one path to charity,
and that was paved with gold. She did not know how to offer sympathy,
or to enhance a gift by the manner of giving. Her father had
sacrificed everything to multiply and keep his wealth; all earthly
happiness had been given up for it; and unsatisfying as it had been
to her own heart, it had satisfied his. Inclination prompted to give,
habit to withhold; and certainly Sarah Bond felt far more enjoyment in
obeying inclination than in following habit; though sometimes what she
believed a duty triumphed over inclination.
If Sarah Bond ministered to her sister's necessities, she did so
secretly, hardly venturing to confess she did so, but shielding
herself from her father's curse, by sending to her sister's child, and
not her sister. Receiving few letters, the village postman grumbled
far more at having to walk out to Greenfield, than if he was
accustomed to do so every day; and one morning in particular; when
he was obliged to do so while the rain poured, he exhibited a letter,
sealed with a large black seal, to the parish-clerk, saying he wished
with all his heart Miss Bond had remained at the old manor-house up
street, instead of changing; and where was the good of taking her
a mourning letter such a gloomy day? it would be very unkind, and
he would keep it "till the rain stopped;" and so he did, until the
next morning; then taking back word to the village postmaster that
Miss Bond wanted a post-chaise and four horses instantly, which
intelligence set not only the inn, but the whole village in commotion.
She, who had never wanted a post-chaise before, to want four horses to
it now, was really wonderful.
"Which road shall I take, Miss?" inquired the post-boy, turning round
in his saddle, and touching his cap.
"On straight," was the answer. Such a thrill of disappointment as
ran through the little crowd, who stood at the door to witness her
departure. "On straight!" Why, they must wait the post-boy's return
before they could possibly know which way she went. Such provoking
suspense was enough to drive the entire village demented.
Miss Bond remained away a month, and then returned, bringing with her
her niece, a girl of about eight years old--her deceased sister's only
child, Mabel Graham.
The following Sunday Sarah Bond went to church, leading her young
companion by the hand; both were in deep mourning, and yet the very
least observant of the congregation remarked, that they had never seen
Miss Bond look so happy as when, coming out after service, and finding
that the wind had changed to the north-east, she took off her scarf
in the church porch, and put it round the neck of the lovely girl, who
strongly remonstrated against the act. It was evident that Mabel had
been accustomed to have her own way; for when she found her aunt was
resolved her throat should be protected, she turned round, and in
a moment tore the silk into halves. "Now, dear aunt, neither of our
throats will suffer," she exclaimed; while Sarah Bond did not know
whether she ought to combat her wilfulness or applaud the tender
care of herself. It was soon talked of throughout the village, how
wonderfully Sarah Bond was changed; how cheerful and even gay she had
become. Instead of avoiding society, how willingly, yet how awkwardly,
she entered into it; how eagerly she sought to learn and to make
herself acquainted with every source and system of education. No
traveller in the parchy desert ever thirsted more for water than she
did for knowledge, and her desire seemed to increase with what it fed
upon. The more she had the more she required; and all this was for the
sake of imparting all she learned to Mabel. She fancied that teachers
might not be kind to this new-found idol; that she could transfer
information more gently and continuously; that the relative was the
best instructress; in short, the pent-up tenderness of her nature, the
restrained torrent of affections that had so long lain dormant, were
poured forth upon the little heiress, as she was already called; and
captious and determined she was, as ever heiress could be; but withal
of so loving a nature, and so guileless a heart, so confiding, so
generous, and so playful, and overflowing with mirth and mischief,
that it would have been impossible to fancy any living creature who
had felt the sunshine of fourteen summers more charming or tormenting.
"I wish, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel, one morning, as she sat at her
embroidery, the sun shining through the open window upon the abundant
glories of her hair, while her aunt sat, as she always did, opposite
to her, that she might, when she raised her eyes from off the
Italian lesson she was conning for her especial edification, have the
happiness of seeing her without an effort; "I wish, dear aunt, you
would send that old spinnet out of the room; it looks so odd by the
side of my beautiful piano."
"My dear Mabel," replied her aunt, "I have put as much _new_ furniture
as you wished into this room, but I cannot part with the old"--
"Rubbish!" added Mabel, snapping her worsted with the impatience of
the movement.
"It may be rubbish in _your_ eyes, Mabel, but I have told you before
that my dear father desired I should never part with the furniture of
the room he died in."
Mabel _looked_ the truth--"that she was not more inclined toward the
old furniture on that account;" but she did not say so. "Have you got
the key of the old spinnet, aunt? I should like to hear its tone."
"I have never found the key, my dear, though I have often looked for
it; I suppose my father lost it. I have danced to its music before now
to my mother's playing; but I am sure it has not a tone left."
"I wish you would dance now, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel, jumping up
at the idea; "you never told me you could dance; I never, somehow,
fancied you could dance, and I have been obliged to practise my
quadrilles with two high-backed chairs and my embroidery frame. Do,
dear aunt; put by that book, and dance." It would be impossible to
fancy a greater contrast than aunt and niece. Sarah Bond's erect and
perfectly flat figure was surmounted by a long head and face, round
which an abundance of gray hair was folded; for by no other term can
I describe its peculiar dress; her cap plain, but white as snow; and a
black silk gown, that had seen its best days, was pinned and _primmed_
on, so as to sit as close as possible to a figure which would have
been greatly improved by heavy and abundant drapery. Mabel, lithe and
restless, buoyant and energetic, unable even to wish for more luxury
or more happiness than she possessed, so that her active mind was
_forced_ to employ its longings on trifles, as it really had nothing
else to desire; her face was round as those faces are which become
oval in time; and her bright laughing eyes sparkled like sunbeams
at the bare notion of making "aunt Sarah" take either the place of a
high-backed chair, or the embroidery frame in a quadrille. "Do dance,"
she repeated.
"My dear child, I know as little of your quadrilles as you do of my
country dances and reels. No, Mabel; I can neither open the spinnet
nor dance quadrilles; so you have been twice refused this morning; a
novelty, is it not, my dearest Mabel?"
"But why do you not break open the spinnet? Do break it open, aunt; I
want to see the inside of it so much."
"No, Mabel; the lock is a peculiar one, and could not be broken
without defacing the marquetre on the cover, which I should not like
to do. My poor mother was so proud of that cover, and used to dust and
polish it with her own hands."
"What! herself?" exclaimed the pretty Mabel; "why did not her servants
do it?"
"Because, my dear, she had but one."
"But one! I remember when my poor mamma had none," sighed Mabel, "and
we were _so_ miserable."
"But not from lack of attendants, I think," answered Sarah Bond. "If
they _are_ comforts, they are careful ones, and sadly wasteful. We
were never so happy as we were then. Your mother and I used to set
the milk, and mind the poultry, and make the butter, and cultivate the
flower-garden, and help to do the house work; and then in the evening
we would run in the meadows, come home laden with wild flowers, and
tired as we were by alternate work and play, my dear mother would play
on that old instrument, and my poor father sing, and we sisters wound
up the evening by a merry dance, your mother and myself trying hard
which could keep up the dance longest."
Mabel resumed her embroidery without once speaking. Sarah Bond laid
down the book she had been reading, and moved restlessly about; her
manner, when either thoughtful or excited, prevented her features
from being disturbed; so her feelings were soothed by wandering from
place to place, or table to table; but after a considerable pause,
she said--"I wish you were a little older, Mabel; I wish you to be
older, that I might convince you, dear, that it is in vain to expect
happiness from the possession of wealth, unless we circulate it, share
it with others, and yet do so prudently and watchingly. Yet, my poor
dear father would be very angry if he heard me say that, Mabel."
"Yes, I know," interrupted the thoughtless girl, "_for he was a
miser_."
"Hush, Mabel!" exclaimed her aunt; "how can you say anything so harsh
of him from whom we inherit all we have. He was careful, peculiar,
very peculiar; but he saved all for me; and may God judge mercifully
between him and me if I cannot in all things do as he would have had
me," and then she paused, as if reasoning and arguing with herself;
apologising for the human throes in her own bosom that led her to act
so frequently in direct opposition to her father's desires; so that to
those who could not understand her motives and feelings, she appeared
every day more inconsistent. "It is difficult to judge of motives in
any case. I am sure, if he had only gone abroad into the world, and
seen distress as I have seen it, he could not have shut his heart
against his fellow-creatures: but his feelings were hardened against
some, whom he considered types of all, and he shut himself up; and
seeing no misery, at last believed, as many do, whom the world never
dreams of calling as you called him, Mabel--seeing no misery, believed
that it only existed in the popular whine. I am sure, if he had seen,
he would have relieved it. I always think _that_ when I am giving; it
is a great blessing to be able to give; and I would give more, were I
not fearful that it might injure you."
"Injure me, dear aunt, how?"
"Why, Mabel, my heart is greatly fixed upon seeing you a rich heiress,
and, in time, suitably established."
"You have just been saying how much happier you were when you were all
poor together, and yet you want to make me rich."
"People may be very happy in poverty before they have known riches;
but having once been rich, it would, I think, be absurd to suppose we
could ever be happy again in poverty."
"I saw," replied the girl, "two children pass the gate this morning
while I was gathering flowers--bunches of the simple white jessamine
you love so much, dear aunt--and they asked so hard for bread, that I
sent them a shilling."
"Too much," interrupted Sarah Bond, habitually rather than from
feeling; "too much, dear Mabel, to give to common beggars."
"There were two, you know, and they looked wan and hungry. About three
hours after, I was cantering my pony down Swanbrook Lane--the grass
there is so soft and green, that you cannot hear his feet, while I can
hear every grasshopper that chirps--suddenly, I heard a child's voice
singing a tune full of mirth, and I went softly, softly on; and there,
under a tree, sat one of my morning acquaintances, making believe to
sing through a stick, while the other danced with bare feet, and her
very rags fluttered in time to the tune. They looked pale and hungry,
though a thick crust of bread upon the grass proved that they were
not the latter; but I never saw more joy in well-fed, well-clothed
children, for they paused and laughed, and then began again. Poverty
was no pain to _them_, at all events."
"My dear," said Sarah Bond, "you forget the crust of bread was their
riches, for it was a superfluity."
"And is it not very shocking that in England a crust of bread _should
be_ a superfluity," inquired Mabel.
"Very, dear; _but a shilling was a great deal to give at the gate_,"
observed her aunt, adding, after a pause, "and yet it shows how little
will make the poor happy. I am sure, if my father had looked abroad,
instead of staying at home to watch his--his--money, he would have
thought it right to share what he had. It is an unnatural thing to
shut one's self up from the duties of life; one gets no interest
for any other outlay to do the heart service; but though those poor
children danced their rags in the sunshine, and felt not the stones
they danced on, yet my dear Mabel could not dance with poverty as her
companion--my blessed, blessed child!"
"I'd rather dance a jig with mirth than a minuet with melancholy,"
laughed the girl; "and yet it would take a great deal to make me
miserable if I were with you, and you loved me, my dear aunt. Still,
I own I like to be rich, so as to have everything I want, and give
everybody what they want; and, aunt Sarah, you know very well I cannot
finish this rose without the pale floss silk, and my maid forgot both
that and to order the seed pearl."
Mabel's complaint was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who
told Miss Bond that Mr. Cramp, her attorney, wished to see her.
"Show him in," said Miss Bond.
"He wishes to see you alone, ma'am."
"His wife is going to die, and he will want you to marry him!"
exclaimed Mabel, heedless of the servant's presence. "Do, dear aunt,
and let me be bride's-maid."
Sarah Bond changed colour; and then, while stooping to kiss her
wayward niece, she called her "a foolish child."
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Cramp, whom we introduced at the conclusion of the last chapter,
as Miss Bond's man of business, was a plain little man, skilled in the
turnings and windings of the law, beside which he could not be said to
know distinctly any other code of morals.
On this particular morning, after a few common-place observations,
Mr. Cramp made a somewhat strange inquiry. "Had Miss Bond heard that
Mr. Alfred Bond had come over to England?" No; she had not heard
it. It was, Mr. Cramp _insinuated_ (for he never _said_ anything
directly)--it was rather an awkward circumstance Mr. Alfred Bond's
coming to England. He thought--he believed--he _hoped_ it would make
no difference to Miss Bond.
Miss Bond opened her wide eyes still more widely. She knew that
Mr. Alfred Bond was the heir-at-law to the property bequeathed her
father; but what of that? he had never, that she heard of, dreamed of
disputing the will; and she had never felt one pang of insecurity as
to the possessions which had of late grown so deeply into her heart.
At this unexpected intimation she felt the blood rush through her
veins in a wild untameable manner. In all her trials--and they had
been many--in all her illnesses--not a few--she had never fainted,
never fallen into that symptom of weak-mindedness, a fit of hysterics;
but now she sat without power of speech, looking at Mr. Cramp's round
face.
"My dear Miss Bond, you are not ill, I hope?" exclaimed Mr. Cramp. "I
pray you to bear up; what has been said is doubtless wrong--must be
wrong; a threat of the opposite party--an undefined threat, which
we must prepare ourselves to meet in a lawyer-like way. Hope for the
best, and prepare"--
"For what, sir?" inquired Miss Bond, gaspingly.
"For any--anything--that is my plan. Unfortunately, the only way to
deal with the world, so as to meet it on equal terms, is to think
every man a rogue. It is a deeply painful view to take of human
nature, and it agonizes me to do so. Let me, however, entreat you to
bear up"--
"Against what, sir?" said Sarah Bond abruptly, and almost fiercely,
for now Mr. Cramp's face was reduced to its original size, and she
had collected her ideas. "There are few things I could _not_ bear up
against, but I must know what I have to sustain."
"Your father's will, my dear lady, is safe; the document, leaving
everything to you, that is safe, and all other documents are safe
enough except Cornelius Bond Hobart's will--a will bequeathing the
property to your uncle. _Where_ is that will to be found? for if
Alfred Bond proceeds, the veritable document must be produced."
"Why, so it can be, I suppose," said Sarah Bond, relapsing in some
degree into agitation; "it was produced when my father inherited the
property, as you know."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Bond," he answered; "certainly not as I
_know_, for I had not the honour of being your father's legal adviser
at that time. It was my master and subsequent partner. I had not
the privilege of your father's confidence until after my colleague's
death."
"No one," said Miss Bond, "ever had my father's _confidence_, properly
so called; he was very close in all money transactions. The will,
however, must be, I think, in Doctors' Commons! Go there immediately,
Mr. Cramp; and--stay--I will go with you; there it is, and there are
the names of the witnesses."
"My dear lady!" expostulated the attorney, in the softest tones of his
soft voice, "I _have_ been there already. I wished to spare a lady of
your sensibility as much pain as possible; and so I went there myself,
with Mr. Alfred Bond's man of business, whom I happened to know; and I
was grieved--cut up, I may say, to the very heart's core, to hear what
he said; and he examined the document very closely too--very closely;
and, I assure you, spoke in the handsomest, I may say, the _very_
handsomest manner of you, of your character, and usefulness, and
generosity, and Christian qualities; he did indeed; but we have all
our duties to perform in this world; paramount things are duties, Miss
Bond, and his is a very painful one."
"What need of all these words to state a simple matter. Have you seen
the will?" said Sarah Bond.
"I have."
"Well, and what more is there to see, unless Mr. Alfred Bond denies
his relative's power to make a will?"
"Which, I believe he does not do. He says he never made a will; that
is all."
"But there _is_ the will," maintained Sarah Bond.
"I am very sorry to wound you; but cannot you understand?"
"Speak plainly if you can, sir," said Sarah Bond sternly; "speak
plainly if you can; I listen."
"He maintains, on the part of his client, that the will is a forgery."
"He maintains a falsehood, then," exclaimed Miss Bond, with a firm
determination and dignity of manner that astonished Mr. Cramp. "If
the will be forged, who is the forger? Certainly not my father; for
he inherited the property from his elder brother, who died insane. The
will is in _his_ favour, and not in my father's. Besides, neither of
them held any correspondence with the testator for twenty years; he
died abroad, and the will was sent to England after his death. Would
any one there do a gratuitous service to persons they had never
seen? Where could be the reason--the motive? How is it, that, till
now, Alfred Bond urged no claim. There are reasons," she continued,
"reasons to give the world. But I have within me, what passes all
reason--a feeling, a conviction, a true positive knowledge, that my
father was incapable of being a party to such a crime. He was a stern
man, loving money--I grant that--but honest in heart and soul. The
only creature he ever wronged was himself. He did _that_, I know. He
despoiled himself of peace and comfort, of rest and repose. In _that_
he sinned against God's dispensation, who gives that we may give, not
merely to others, but lawfully to ourselves. After all, it would have
been but a small thing for him to have been without this property, for
it gave him no one additional luxury. I wonder, Mr. Cramp, that you,
as a man, have courage to stand before me, a poor unprotected woman,
and dare to say, that will is forged."
While she spoke, Sarah Bond stood forth a new creature in the
astonished eyes of the sleek attorney. He absolutely quailed before
the vehemence and fervour of the usually mild woman. He assured her
she was mistaken; that _he_ had not yielded to the point that the will
was a forgery; that he never would confess that such was the case;
that it should be his business to disprove the charge; that he hoped
she did not suppose he yielded to the plaintiff, who was resolved to
bring the matter into a court of justice. He would only ask her one
little question; had she ever seen her father counterfeit different
hands? Yes, she said, she had; he could counterfeit, copy, any hand he
ever saw, so that the real writer could not tell the counterfeit from
the original. Mr. Cramp made no direct observation on this, except to
beg that she would not mention that "melancholy circumstance" to any
one else.
Sarah Bond told him she should not feel bound to make this talent of
her father's a crime, by twisting into a _secret_ what he used to do
as an amusement. Mr. Cramp urged mildly the folly of this, when she
had a defence to make; but she stood all the more firmly upon what she
fearlessly considered the dignity of right and truth; at the same time
assuring him, she would to the last contest that _right_, not so much
for her own sake, or the sake of one who was dear to her beyond all
power of expression, but for the sake of _him_ in whose place she
stood, and whose honour she would preserve with her life. Mr. Cramp
was a good, shrewd man of business. He considered all Miss Bond's
energy, on the subject of her father's honour, as romance, though he
could not help believing _she_ was in earnest about it. He thought it
was perfectly in accordance with the old miser's character, that he
should procure or make such a document; though he considered it very
extraordinary, for many reasons, that it should have imposed upon men
more penetrating and learned than himself.
Sarah Bond, after his departure, endeavoured to conceal her anxiety
from her niece; but in vain. Mabel was too clear-sighted; and it was
a relief, as much as an astonishment to her aunt, to see how bravely
she bore up against the evil news. Miss Bond did not remember that the
knowledge of the _power_ of wealth does not belong to sixteen summers.
Mabel knew and thought so little of its artificial influence, that
she believed her happiness sprang from birds and flowers, from music,
and dancing, and books--those silent but immortal tongues that live
through centuries, for our advantage; besides, her young heart welled
forth so much hope, that she really did not understand, even if they
lost their fortune, their "troublesome fortune," as she called
it, that it would seriously affect their happiness. There was no
philosophy, no heroism in this; it was simply the impulse of a bright,
sunny, beautiful young mind.
The course of events promised soon to strip Mabel of all except her
own bright conceptions. Mr. Alfred Bond urged on his plea with all the
energy and bitterness of one who had been for many years despoiled
of his right. His solicitor, soon after his claim was first declared,
made an offer to Sarah Bond to settle an annuity on her and her niece
during the term of their natural lives; but this was indignantly
spurned by Sarah; from him she would accept no favour; she either had
or had not a right to the whole of the property originally left to
her uncle. Various circumstances, too tedious to enumerate, combined
to prove that the will deposited in Doctors Commons was not a true
document; the signature of Cornelius Bond Hobart was disproved by
many; but second only to one incident in strangeness was the fact,
that though sought in every direction, and widely advertised for in
the newspapers of the day, the witnesses to the disputed document
could not be found--they had vanished.
The incident, so strange as to make more than one lawyer believe for
a time that really such a quality as honesty was to be found in the
world, was as follows:--Sarah Bond, be it remembered, had never seen
the disputed will; she was very anxious to do so; and yet, afterwards,
she did not like to visit Doctors Commons with any one. She feared,
she knew not what; and yet, above all things, did she desire to see
this will with her own eyes.
Mr. Cramp was sitting in his office when a woman, muffled in a cloak,
and veiled, entered and seated herself without speaking. After a
moment she unclasped her cloak, loosened the wrapping from her throat,
threw back her veil, and asked for a glass of water.
"Bless me, Miss Bond, is it you? I am sure I am much honoured--very
much!"
"No honour, sir," she replied,
|
which could be taken, but by the facility
with which words could be enunciated on them at the same time.
Thus, in the case of a girl student, if she could not only sing the
upper G, but could also enunciate words easily on that note, he
considered that she was a true soprano; and so on with all the other
voices. Thus a baritone might be able to take notes almost as high as a
tenor. But if he could not pronounce words comfortably on those notes he
was not, in Lamperti’s judgment, to be classed as anything but a
baritone.
But, as a general rule, your teacher will not have much difficulty in
deciding as to the classification of your voice, and, presuming this to
have been decided, we must consider next the question of training it.
Here I feel that I must go carefully, for if there is one thing more
certain than another, in my opinion, it is that the pupil who hopes to
get the best results from his training must place himself unreservedly
in his teacher’s hands, since otherwise he cannot possibly hope to do
justice to his teaching. That is to say, he should not confuse his mind
by accepting the advice and instruction of other people--so far, at all
events, as concerns what may be called the strictly technical side of
his training.
Therefore, I shall confine myself to general hints and observations
only, based on my own experiences and herewith offered for what they are
worth.
CHAPTER XI
AGE TO START TRAINING
As to the age to start training the voice, this depends to some extent
upon the individual, but speaking generally it may be said that in the
case of boys the voice matures at about the ages of from fourteen to
sixteen, and that no serious work should be undertaken until after this
period. Although choir-singing for boys affords wonderful training--in
some cases, at all events, if not in all--it should not be persisted in
too long.
If boys are allowed to sing on in the choir until their voices change,
they may easily find, finally, that they have totally ruined their vocal
organs for the rest of their lives. The utmost caution should be
exercised, therefore, in this matter, and it should be the duty of every
choirmaster to see that none of his choristers are permitted to run this
grave risk by continuing their services too long.
In the case of girls, teaching may begin about the age of sixteen or
seventeen, but not much earlier.
CHAPTER XII
ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY
To what extent a vocal student should be instructed in matters
anatomical and physiological is a question which has often been raised,
and upon which the most contradictory views have been expressed. It is
argued by some, that having in mind all the great singers of the past
who flourished before the laryngoscope was thought of that the less the
student knows about such things the better. It is contended that he will
surely become self-conscious and unnatural by thinking about the
physiological mechanism of processes which should be absolutely
instinctive and automatic; and possibly in some instances this does
occur.
I do not think, however, that if the instruction is properly given it
need have any such effect, and I thoroughly believe, myself, in the
student being given at least a general idea as to the construction of
the vocal organs and the manner in which they function.
To precisely what extent the student should be instructed in what a
famous singer once humorously referred to as “thoracic,
crico-thyroideal, and epiglottic matters” may be a question for
consideration, but as to the desirability of his being acquainted in a
general way with the working of the vocal apparatus I have no sort of
doubt.
The truth is that the whole business of singing, if reduced to its
elements, is much simpler and easier to understand than is sometimes
supposed, and there is not the slightest reason why any difficulty need
be experienced in explaining the matter in its general outlines. I would
go further, indeed, and say that he is not likely to prove a very
intelligent pupil who is not sufficiently curious and interested to wish
to know something upon the subject.
At the same time, it is, no doubt, perfectly true that many of the
greatest singers of the past have been destitute of the slightest
knowledge of such matters. In which connection one may recall the famous
saying of Patti when interrogated as to her method: “Je n’en sais rien.”
But it does not follow that others not possessed of her marvelous
natural gifts should follow her example in this respect. For she did
unconsciously and instinctively what in the case of most others only
comes as the result of laborious study and practice.
One may recall, in this connection, the saying of that profound student
of the art on the technical side, who was also in her day such a great
executant, Lilli Lehmann, that it is not enough to sing well, one must
be told also the how and why, and be given a firm foundation, if
permanent results are to be hoped for. For otherwise one will
[Illustration: ROUGH SECTION OF NOSE, MOUTH, AND PHARYNX, SUGGESTING BY
DOTTED LINES HOW THE TONE PASSES FROM THE LARYNX THROUGH THE MOUTH AND
PASSAGES OF THE HEAD.]
run the risk of coming to grief when for some reason or other an
unexpected strain is put upon one’s resources and there is no sound
knowledge and understanding to fall back upon.
How can one properly understand, for instance, the all-important subject
of breathing, if one has not at least some idea as to the natural
processes involved? Vocal teachers and students of voice production are
often twitted upon the conflicting character of the views which they
hold and the principles which they lay down, but here is one subject, at
all events, upon which there is universal agreement, namely, the supreme
importance of right breathing as the very foundation of the singer’s
art.
CHAPTER XIII
BREATHING
He who breathes properly sings properly, it has been said; and there is
not a single authority of any weight, I venture to say, who does not
endorse that statement. The old Italian masters used to say, indeed,
that the art of singing _is_ the art of breathing; and the same idea was
put by Lamperti in another way when he observed that “the attainment of
proper respiration should be the first object of the student of
singing.”
On the same subject the words of a famous English singing teacher,
William Shakespeare, may be quoted. In his well-known work on the Art of
Song he lays down as the two fundamental aims to be set before himself
by the student: 1, how to take a breath and how to press it out slowly;
and, 2, how to sing to this controlled breath pressure.
It is when we come to consider the views of the different theorists in
detail that divergencies will be found to arise. But on certain
fundamental matters there will, I think, be found pretty general
agreement nowadays.
The great guiding principle to be borne in mind, in my opinion, is ease
and naturalness. This is one of those matters in regard to which nature
can be trusted much more safely than theorists and professors. I refer,
of course, to the actual process of breathing. As regards the subsequent
production of tone there is, of course, plenty to be taught. But the
actual process of inspiration and exhalation should be as natural and as
easy as possible.
[Illustration: LARYNX, WHERE THE VOICE BEGINS.
THE PIPE, UP WHICH THE AIR IS PUMPED TO THE LARYNX AND ON UP INTO THE
HEAD.
LUNGS, OR THE VOCAL BELLOWS.
ROUGH DIAGRAM OF THE LARYNX, TRACHEA AND LUNGS.]
Some wise words of Salvatore Marchesi may be quoted on this point: “When
explaining the physical, mechanical process of breathing to beginners
it is essential to make them understand that natural laws have provided
for its independence of our will, as is observed in sleeping. Therefore,
every intentional preparation or effort made in order to draw more air
into the lungs will produce the contrary result, hindering the freedom
of the natural process.”
But this is not to imply that breathing capacity cannot be cultivated
and developed by practice. On the contrary, a vast amount can be done in
this way, just as in the case of any other organ of the body, by means
of systematic exercise and practice. Everyone has heard, for instance,
of the wonderful way in which the breathing capacity of native divers in
the tropics is developed in the course of their calling, or of that old
man in the Bay of Naples who stops under the water with a watch in hand
for 35 seconds. Singers can acquire something of the same power, and
must do so, indeed, if they hope ever to achieve the best results. For
the production of good sustained tone is impossible if the art of
breathing is not properly understood and acquired.
Among modern singers no one attached more importance to breathing and
breath control than the late Signor Caruso, and no one, certainly,
attained more wonderful results in this way. He developed his powers to
such an extent indeed in this respect, that it was said that he could
move a grand piano by the expansion of the muscles of his diaphragm! And
whether this be true or not it is certain that his wonderful breathing
capacity was, as he himself used to declare, in large measure the secret
of his consummate art.
Try to avoid breathing through the mouth. Inhalation through the
nostrils purifies and warms the air before it reaches the throat.
Breathing through the mouth dries the throat and makes the voice husky.
Nevertheless, in singing declamatory music what are called half-breaths
through the mouth are necessary.
When practising avoid taking sudden breaths, though this may also be
necessary when performing publicly.
Practise once daily before a looking-glass and so correct faults of
breathing and grimaces.
Don’t heave the shoulders when taking breath. There should be no visible
movement of the body.
When practising breathing--and this should be done every day--inhale a
long slow breath to the full lung capacity, hold for one or two seconds,
and then exhaust in the same slow gentle way. This is rather exhausting,
and two or three periods of five minutes with an interval of say fifteen
minutes should be sufficient for each day.
CHAPTER XIV
VOCAL CORDS
But, of course, breathing alone is not sufficient. After the breathing
capacity has been developed the power thus acquired must be rightly
applied, and here the first principle is right emission, and in
particular the rule that the release of the breath and the attack of the
tone must take place simultaneously. In other words, no breath at all
must be permitted to escape before the production of tone.
It is to attain this result that the so-called _coup de glotte_, or
“shock of the glottis,” has been advocated. To appreciate this term it
is necessary to understand exactly how vocal tone is produced.
I will not attempt to go into the matter fully, but the general
principles involved are quite easily grasped.
Taken broadly, then, it will be understood that vocal sound is produced
by a column of air passing from the lungs through a small aperture
formed by the vocal cords within the larynx (see diagrams). When we
breathe in the ordinary way the air passes in and out as we inspire and
exhale, without any sound being produced. This is because the passage
through the larynx is then quite clear. No obstruction is offered to the
air current, and in consequence the process is quite noiseless.
When, however, we wish to utter a sound, Nature provides for this by
enabling us to interpose an obstruction to the air current by means of
the vocal cords, and the air then has to pass through a small slit or
aperture, sometimes called the “vocal chink,” formed by their being
drawn closely together curtainwise, as it were.
[Illustration: GLOTTIS AND OPENING BETWEEN THE VOCAL CORDS
VOCAL CORDS OPEN
BONES TO WHICH VOCAL CORDS ARE ATTACHED
THE VOCAL CORDS DURING DEEP BREATHING.]
When the vocal cords--or ligaments, as they are perhaps better
described--are drawn together in this manner the passage of the air is
so restricted that it can only pass in short rapid pulsations, instead
of, as before, in a continuous stream, and the result of these pulses
or vibrations is the production of sound or tone.
The aperture, or chink, is called the glottis, and the character of the
tone resulting, in particular the pitch of it, is regulated by the
precise disposition and proximity to one another of the two bands or
cords or ligaments--sometimes they are known as the vocal lips--by which
the chink or opening is formed.
[Illustration: THE VOCAL CORDS DURING THE SINGING OF A HIGH NOTE.]
The process itself of regulating the opening of the vocal cords in this
way is entirely automatic and subconscious. We merely _will_, to produce
a tone of a certain pitch and the vocal cords automatically, and without
any conscious effort on our part, are brought together to precisely the
right degree necessary to produce that particular tone.
From this it will be understood that every note that is uttered, every
inflection even of the speaking voice, however minute, requires a
slightly different adjustment of these infinitely delicate threadlike
membranes which are provided for this purpose within the box-like
larynx; and this extraordinarily delicate adjustment is all effected
quite automatically and instinctively by the mere operations of the
will.
The brain intimates, so to speak, that it requires a certain note to be
produced and forthwith, without the slightest conscious act of
adjustment on the part of the singer or speaker, the vocal ligaments
adapt themselves precisely in the manner required and the particular
note desired is duly produced.
And these notes may issue forth through that tiny aperture and from the
throat of the singer to the number of a dozen or more in a second--each
one requiring a separate adjustment of the aperture and the said
adjustment being effected in every instance, in the case of a properly
trained singer, absolutely perfectly and exactly.
Surely of all the many wonderful contrivances which go to the making of
the mechanism of the human body there is none which is more wonderful
than this! It is, indeed, necessary only to consider the elaboration of
the means and the complexity of the muscular adjustments necessary to
achieve similar results in the case of a violin, say, or a piano, in
order to realise the amazing ingenuity and efficiency of the means
employed by Nature.
But I am wandering from the _coup de glotte_, which I set out to
explain. Let it be understood, therefore, that the _coup de glotte_ is
merely a name for a particular method of bringing together the lips of
the vocal cords and certain subordinate muscles, known as the
ventricular bands, with a view to a better and cleaner production of
tone, and with a view especially to the avoidance of the particular
fault above referred to, namely, the emission of air before the
production of the note.
In the result the “attack” is certainly very sharp and clean, but
personally I cannot recommend this particular method of achieving that
result, since the effect is anything but agreeable to the ear, and there
is good reason for thinking that the practice, besides being
unnecessary, is also injurious to a vocal organ.
I will not go further into the matter, however, since all such technical
details are for the teacher to explain and illustrate and cannot be
satisfactorily dealt with in print.
Certain general principles may, however, be touched on, amongst which
the first is, perhaps, that there should never be at any time the
smallest conscious strain or effort. Relaxation, looseness, ease, should
be the watchwords all the time. Rigidity, tightening of the muscles,
stiffness, contraction, are fatal to the production of beautiful tone.
Here, as so often in art, when grace and beauty are the objects aimed
at, economy of effort is the grand secret.
There should never be any strain or forcing of any sort or kind, and on
the same principle, it may be noted, is the rule as to the amount of
breath emitted, which should always be the smallest quantity possible
which suffices to produce the tone required. Let out enough breath and
no more--keeping the remainder in reserve--that is one of the
fundamental secrets of beautiful tone production.
Lilli Lehmann puts the same point in another way when she insists on the
supreme importance of emitting “as little breath as possible.” Perhaps I
may be permitted to quote, also, in this connection some interesting
remarks of Signor Salvatore Fucito, in a recently published volume, in
reference to the practice of Caruso in this regard.
“Caruso governed the expiratory flow of the breath with such mastery
that not a particle of it escaped without giving up its necessary
equivalent in tone. Caruso emitted for each musical phrase, or for each
note, just enough breath to produce that phrase or note musically and
_no more_. The remaining breath he kept in reserve, which made the
enchanted hearer feel that the master was still far from the limit of
his resources, that he had still ample motive power in reserve for
whatever the occasion might require.”
Another great master of breathing is Battistini. One hears him singing
long phrases, one after the other, without perceiving when or how he
fills his lungs, so completely has he covered up all traces of the
physical effort. There is no puffing and panting, no discoloration or
distortion of the face.
I am myself often asked how I manage to find the breath for the long
florid passages which I so often have to sing, and my reply usually is
that I have a good pair of bellows which I make a point of always
keeping well filled with air.
This can be done, I may add, in the case of such passages as I have
mentioned by taking at times only partial breaths instead of full ones.
These can naturally be taken much more quickly than complete
inspirations, and by their means the “bellows” can be kept constantly
replenished even when the heaviest demands are being made upon their
contents.
But while it is essential to maintain a good pressure of air behind the
tone, this does not mean that the lungs must be filled to distention,
for this produces the worst possible result. Madame Lilli Lehmann has
recorded, for instance, in her valuable treatise on singing, that she
made this mistake in the first instance, with the result that she
always felt as if she must release some of her superfluous breath before
beginning to sing.
“Undoubtedly,” she writes, “I took in too much air in breathing and
cramped various muscles, thereby depriving my breathing organs and
muscles of their elasticity. I often had, with all my care and
preparation for inhalation, too little breath, and sometimes, when not
giving special thought to it, more than enough.” And others not
infrequently commit the same error under the mistaken impression that
they must get as much air into their lungs as possible.
CHAPTER XV
PLACING THE VOICE
An all-important part of the student’s training is that in relation to
what is called the “placing” of the voice. This somewhat vague term has
been the subject of a good deal of misunderstanding, and the most
curious notions have gained currency as to its actual meaning. Yet this
is, in reality, quite simple.
Tone is made in the first instance, as I have already explained, by the
breath passing through the vocal cords. The precise _quality_ of the
tone depends, however, on the formation and disposition of the various
parts of the vocal apparatus--throat, palate, tongue, and so on--through
which the breath afterwards passes before issuing from the mouth.
The disposition of these various parts can be varied by the individual,
and the placing of the voice consists in finding how best to adjust them
in order to get the most satisfactory tone, and in acquiring the power
always to produce tone in this way and in no other.
To assist in attaining this result it is usual to instruct the pupil to
sing “forward,” “dans le masque,” and so on, but it should be clearly
understood that though such terms are useful from the practical point of
view, they are none the less only a _façon de parler_, and a means of
instructing the pupil how to adjust and adapt the whole vocal apparatus,
so to speak, in the most effective way.
You can really produce a tone in your face or in your throat. It is all
produced by the vocal cords, and nowhere else, and merely receives its
specific quality or character, so to speak, by, in part, the natural
formation, and, in part, the conscious adjustment of the passages
through which it passes on its way to the mouth.
But by thinking of the face or the throat and, so to speak, _apparently_
fixing it there, you can modify the disposition of the various parts in
question and so influence the quality of the tone produced. This
mysterious placing of the voice means, therefore, in reality, nothing
more than finding out in each individual instance the best position of
the vocal organs for getting the best results.
This, again, is one of those matters in regard to which little help can
be derived from advice in books. Only by direct instruction from a
capable master can a pupil possibly be made to understand completely
what is required in this respect.
It is, indeed, essentially one of those matters in the case of which an
ounce of practice and example is worth a ton of theory, and happy is the
student who has the good fortune to go to a master capable of
instructing him rightly on the point.
Some fortunate ones, like myself, have voices which are quite perfectly
placed by Nature. That is to say, they are the lucky possessors of
voices which they produce naturally and unconsciously in the most
advantageous manner, so that they require to make no alteration at all.
This will, of course, be perceived at once by a capable master, who will
be only too careful in such cases to leave well enough alone. A
charlatan or impostor, on the other hand, can work irremediable harm by
interfering with such voices and attempting to modify or improve them.
A singer with a perfect light soprano voice may, for instance, have the
misfortune to fall into the hands of such a teacher, who will persuade
her that she can sing the rôles of a dramatic soprano, and by misguided
advice and training succeed in ruining a beautiful natural voice in the
attempt to improve it.
In the vast majority of cases, however, the pupil’s voice is not
naturally placed so as to give the best results. That is to say, by
proper instruction and training it can be made to produce better
results--tones more smooth, more round, more resonant, and so on--and
it is here that the services of an experienced and capable teacher are
beyond price. The problem is one of great complexity, for so many
different factors enter into it. The palate, the tongue, the teeth, the
lips, as well as the natural and unalterable formation of the throat,
and so forth, all play their part in determining the issue, and the
slightest modifications in anyone may easily effect the greatest
differences in the results.
It is easy to understand, therefore, how impossible it is to lay down
any general rules in the matter, but it is perhaps safe to say that the
less the pupil is called upon to depart from his, or her, natural and
instinctive procedure, the more likely are good results to be
achieved--the ideal case being, of course, the one in which no
alterations whatsoever are required.
I may add, perhaps, that some authorities attach great importance in
this connection to the language used by the pupil in the earlier stages
of his training--that is, when his voice is undergoing the process of
being placed. That accomplished singer Signor Bonci is, for instance,
one who holds strong views on this point.
According to him it is very injurious for singers at this stage of their
studies to sing in more than one language. I may perhaps venture to
quote what he has written on the subject: “When a tone is properly
placed the word need not affect it, but a great deal of harm is caused
by applying the word too early and beyond this by using several
languages. It is a question, and a serious one, whether those who teach
singing understand the application of the word to the tone, and the
dangers are obvious in languages where nasals and gutturals prevail.”
CHAPTER XVI
REGISTERS
Closely allied with the question of “placing” is that of “registers,”
which has been the subject of so much controversy at various times.
There is not even agreement as to how many registers there are--or even
if there are any at all.
For while some take the view that there are no such things, others speak
variously of two, three, four, and even more natural and inevitable
divisions in the range of the average voice which can only be properly
distinguished from one another in this way.
Some, I believe, even maintain that each individual note should properly
be regarded as a different register. But this suggestion I think can
scarcely be intended seriously. For if each individual note really does
constitute a separate register, what is gained by talking of registers
at all?
There is, however, no denying that there are certain marked differences
in the case of every voice in the quality of the tone produced at
different parts of its range or compass--differences of tone quality
which are accompanied also by different sensations on the part of the
singer; and to these different sections of the vocal range the name of
registers has been given.
Usually three are recognised--chest, medium, and head, the term chest
register being applied to the lowest notes, medium to the middle
portion, and head to the highest.
The terms chest, medium, and head are derived from the sensations
experienced by the singer in producing the different notes referred
to--the lower ones giving the feeling of having been produced in the
chest, the middle ones in the throat, and the highest ones of all in the
head. But it should be understood that in actual fact there is no
difference in the manner in which the various notes are produced.
All the notes of the voice, whether high or low, are in reality produced
in the same way, namely, in the manner already described--by the passage
of the air from the lungs through the “chink” formed by the vocal cords.
In the case of the lower notes, however, owing to certain physiological
causes, the vibrations are felt by the singer most strongly in and about
the chest, and in the case of the higher ones in the head--whence,
therefore, the somewhat misleading terms in use have been adopted.
At the same time the fact that these different sensations are
experienced by the singer may be taken as the best possible evidence of
the fact that there are definite differences in the method of tone
production to account for them; and this view of the matter is in fact
confirmed by the researches of physiologists.
There is no need, of course, for vocalists to concern themselves with
the matter in detail, for the process involved is, of course, entirely
(or almost entirely) automatic. But it is none the less explained by the
physiologists quite clearly why there is, at a certain point, this
difference of feeling on the part of the singer in passing from the
lower notes to the higher ones.
Without going too minutely into the matter, the reason broadly stated is
that the vocal cords are differently disposed in the two cases. Up to a
certain point the successive tones are produced in one uniform way, and
then above that point the method is modified; and it is this difference
accordingly which is accountable for the distinctive sensations
experienced by the singer--sensations, it may be added, which have been
recognised and discussed ever since the art of singing has been studied.
Hence, it is quite a mistake to suggest, as has been done by some, that
the whole notion of registers is a delusion. These different registers
do undoubtedly exist, and it becomes one of the most important problems
consequently to get rid of the “break,” or change in the tone quality,
which occurs when the voice passes from one to the other. At the same
time it does not follow that violent and artificial methods should be
adopted for this purpose.
On the contrary, little else than steady and properly directed practice
is required in the ordinary way to accomplish this. In fact if you get
your breathing right and your tone production in general right, the
register difficulty will probably solve itself. To put it in another
way, if you ensure that each individual tone is right, the problem of
the registers need not seriously trouble you; and this is a matter of
paying attention to the general rules of sound tone production.
Special exercises are, however, usually given for the purpose of
“equalising” the voice, as it is called, that is to say, for the purpose
of ensuring a perfectly even and uniform quality of tone throughout the
scale and avoiding the break at the change of register which has been
referred to; and these exercises are no doubt useful.
Most of the best authorities are agreed that proper breathing has as
much to do with the matter as anything, some even going so far as to say
that the matter should not be mentioned to the student at all. This is
perhaps a somewhat extreme statement, but the underlying principle is
sound. And here, as always, the principle of absolute ease and
relaxation and the avoidance of all unnatural muscular contraction or
violent effort is at once all important.
The following is generally conceded to be a well-thought-out method of
uniting the voice wherever the “break” occurs.
[Illustration]
Sing this passage _Messa di Voce_ ascending and descending, commencing
where the break is first noticeable. If this is practised consistently
for two or three periods of twenty minutes a day it should be effective
in preventing this unpleasant defect. Begin firmly, using “ay,” “oh,” or
“ee,” and swell out to fullest capacity. Then let the tone die away
imperceptibly and be careful not to use falsetto. By doing the foregoing
we have augmented the head tones to such an extent that instead of
having falsetto, we have a head voice capable of being allied to the
chest voice with practically no distinguishable break in the whole
compass.
Contraltos are the greatest sinners with the “break.” Very few
contraltos are able to change the registers or sing two octaves without
a perceptible gap. At one time this vulgar habit was considered a
virtue when in reality it is a clear indication of lack of study and
practice.
Remember that no matter where the “break” occurs it is only by
cultivating the head voice that a cure can be attained.
Then, again, almost everybody has one or two tones more or less
defective, and wherever these occur special attention must be given them
so that they can be built up until the singer can safely overcome the
“break.”
CHAPTER XVII
FAULTS
A few words on faults--and the correction of them. No, I am not going to
attempt a catalogue of all the faults which are possible, but name just
a few: faulty intonation; faulty phrasing; imperfectly attacking notes;
“scooping” up to notes; “digging” or arriving at a note from a semitone
beneath it; singing off the key or out of tune and tremolo. All of these
faults are unforgivable, but the last two are crimes. And I could name
numbers more. I have heard vocalists who have been horrified when I told
them that they arrived at a note after attacking it from a fourth below,
especially when singing _pianissimo_. Consequently I cannot
over-emphasise the supreme need for the student to recognise his faults
and follies if he hopes ever to make progress.
Nay, this is not putting it strongly enough. He should not merely be
ready to recognise his faults, but eager to discover them. He should be
ever on the lookout to realise his deficiencies and to regard as his
best friends those who are kind enough to tell him of them.
This may sound self-obvious, but I am afraid that in practice the
attitude of the average student--and not of the student only, but also
of the experienced artist--is very different. A fatal self-satisfaction
seems, for some reason or other, to be one of the commonest failings of
the average singer. One fairly well-known singer invited my criticism of
her voice, and when I obliged and told her what she must do to become a
great artist she replied, “But I am a great artist.” At which I bowed
and said, “I beg your pardon, madam.”
Yet it is hardly necessary to say--we can all realise it indeed in the
case of others--that there is no form of weakness more absolutely fatal
to artistic progress. Let the student beware, therefore, of this
dangerous form of vanity and self-sufficiency, and learn from all who
can teach him.
How often have I not heard of students--alike young and old--who have
been foolish enough to throw over good teachers because they have been
honest enough and courageous enough to tell them unpalatable truths!
They think they know better. They are so supremely well pleased with
themselves--so foolishly satisfied with their own achievements--that
they regard it as an offence when their errors are pointed out.
Of course they do not put it--even to themselves--in this way. They
prefer to persuade themselves that their teacher is at fault. They
explain that they do not like his “method.” Or they say that he does
not “understand” their particular voice. And so they come to the
conclusion that they had better make a change and go to some other
master instead.
It is all very human but very foolish, and I cannot impress this too
strongly upon all who read this book. Your best friend is one who will
tell you faithfully, not how beautifully you sing but how badly!
Some are, of course, wise enough to realise this. And you will generally
find that they are the ones who get on. Such a one was Caruso, who, to
the end of his day, never ceased to practise, to study, to reflect upon
his art, and even to worry and agitate himself over his supposed
deficiencies--deficiencies which were unperceived by his hearers but
which he, with his fastidious and ultra-sensitive artistic conscience,
persuaded himself were there.
CHAPTER XVIII
COLORATURA SINGING
I suppose there is no question which I am more frequently asked by vocal
students and others interested than how to acquire agility, but I am
afraid my answer is usually disappointing. For I can only repeat that it
is simply a case of perseverance and hard work, plus, of course,
whatever natural abilities in that direction you may possess.
It is obvious that all singers are not equally endowed in this respect.
The mere fact that there is such a difference in this matter between the
various classes of voices is sufficient to prove that. No one ever
expects a contralto voice to have the same facility in this regard as a
light soprano, and still less a bass or a baritone.
The most unceasing practice would never have enabled an Alboni or a
Lablache, say, to achieve the dazzling runs and fioriture of a Patti or
a Catalani. And to a less marked degree there are similar differences
between individual voices of the same class. All are not equally capable
in this particular even when in other respects they may be equally
good.
Some experienced teachers indeed recognise this fact so clearly that
they do not advise even soprano singers to cultivate coloratura singing
unless they have the necessary natural facility to begin with. I think
myself, however, that all should endeavour to acquire the maximum
agility, even if they do not attempt to sing coloratura in public,
simply for the benefits which they will derive from it in other
respects. After all the voice cannot be possessed of too much
flexibility whatever style of music be attempted; and there is no way in
which flexibility can be more surely developed than by the practice of
coloratura.
For the rest I can only repeat that, given the right kind of voice in
the first place, there is only one way to acquire agility, and that is
by practice. No short cuts are possible here, and I have no trade
secrets to impart.
And the necessary exercises themselves are all of the simplest
character, at all events in the beginning; just simple scales--or rather
portions of scales--in the first instance, with others more elaborate in
due course. But the scales are the foundation, and if they are properly
mastered the rest will follow without difficulty.
An important feature of good coloratura singing is, of course, not only
that the notes shall be cleanly sung, but also that they shall be
|
,” said Mr Riggs magnificently.
“Now we'll fin' out wass in telegram off briny deep,” said Mr Dawes,
straddling his legs a little farther apart in order to declare a staunch
front.
“It's worth waiting up for,” said Mr Riggs.
“Abs'lutely,” said his staunch friend.
Frederic Brood appeared in the door, stopping short just inside the
heavy curtains. There was a momentary picture, such as a stage-director
would have arranged. He was still wearing his silk hat and top-coat, and
one glove had been halted in the process of removal. Young Brood stared
at the group of three, a frank stare of amazement. A crooked smile came
to his lips.
“Somewhat later than usual, I see,” he said, and the glove came off with
a jerk. “What's the matter, Jones? Rebellion?”
“No, sir. It's the wireless, sir.”
“Wireless?”
“Briny deep,” said Mr Dawes, vaguely pointing.
“Oh,” said young Brood, crossing slowly to the table. He picked up the
envelope and looked at the inscription. “Oh,” said he again in quite a
different tone on seeing that it was addressed to him. “From father, I
dare say,” he went on, a fine line appearing between his eyebrows.
The old men leaned forward, fixing their blear eyes upon the missive.
“Le's hear the worst, Freddy,” said Mr Riggs.
The young man ran his finger under the flap and deliberately drew out
the message. There ensued another picture. As he read, his eyes widened
and then contracted; his firm young jaw became set and rigid. Suddenly
a short, bitter execration fell from his lips and the paper crumpled in
his hand. Without another word he strode to the fireplace and tossed it
upon the coals. It flared for a second and was wafted up the chimney, a
charred, feathery thing.
Without deigning to notice the two old men who had sat up half the night
to learn the contents of that wonderful thing from the sea, he whirled
on his heel and left the room. One might have noticed that his lips were
drawn in a mirthless, sardonic smile, and that his eyes were angry.
“Oh, Lordy!” sighed Danbury Dawes, blinking, and was on the point of
sitting down abruptly. The arm of Jones prevented.
“I never was so insulted in my----” began
Joseph Riggs feebly.
“Steady, gentlemen,” said Jones. “Lean on me, please.”
CHAPTER II
James Brood's home was a remarkable one. That portion of the house
which rightly may be described as “public” in order to distinguish it
from other parts where privacy was enforced, was not unlike any of the
richly furnished, old-fashioned places in the lower part of the city
where there are still traces left of the Knickerbockers and their times.
Dignified, stately, almost gloomy, it was a mansion in which memories
dwelt, where the past strode unseen among sturdy things of mahogany and
walnut and worn but priceless brocades and silks.
The crystal chandelier in the long drawing-room had shed light for the
Broods since the beginning of the nineteenth century; the great old
sideboard was still covered with the massive plate of a hundred years
ago; the tables, the chairs, the high-boys, the chests of drawers, and
the huge four-posters were like satin to the eye and touch; the rugs,
while older perhaps than the city itself, alone were new to the house of
Brood. They had been installed by the present master of the house.
Age, distinction, quality attended one the instant he set foot inside
the sober portals. This was not the home of men who had been merely
rich; it was not wealth alone that stood behind these stately
investments.
At the top of the house were the rooms which no one entered except by
the gracious will of the master. Here James Brood had stored the quaint,
priceless treasures of his own peculiar fancy: exquisite, curious things
from the mystic East, things that are not to be bought and sold, but
come only to the hand of him who searches in lands where peril is the
price.
Worlds separated the upper and lower regions of that fine old house; a
single step took one from the sedate Occident into the very heart of the
Orient; a narrow threshold was the line between the rugged West and the
soft, languorous, seductive East. In this part of the house James Brood,
when at home for one of his brief stays, spent many of his hours in
seclusion, shut off from the rest of the establishment as completely
as if he were the inhabitant of another world. Attended by his Hindu
servant, a silent man named Ranjab, and on occasions by his secretary,
he saw but little of the remaining members of his rather extensive
household.
For several years he had been engaged in the task of writing his
memoirs--so-called--in so far as they related to his experiences and
researches of the past twenty years. It was not his intention to give
this long and elaborate account of himself to the world at large, but
to publish privately a very limited edition without regard for expense,
copies of which were to find their way into exclusive collections and
libraries given over to science and travel. This work progressed slowly
because of his frequent and protracted absences. When at home, he
laboured ardently and with a purpose that more than offset the periods
of indifference.
His secretary and amanuensis was Lydia Desmond, the nineteen-year-old
daughter of his one-time companion and friend, the late John Desmond,
whose death occurred when the girl was barely ten years of age.
Brood, on hearing of his old comrade's decease, immediately made
inquiries concerning the condition in which he had left his wife and
child, with the result that Mrs Desmond was installed as housekeeper in
the New York house and the daughter given every advantage in the way of
an education.
Desmond had left nothing in the shape of riches except undiminished love
for his wife and a diary kept during those perilous days before he met
and married her. This diary was being incorporated in the history of
James Brood's adventures, by consent of the widow, and was to speak for
Brood in words he could not with modesty utter for himself.
In those pages John Desmond was to tell his own story in his own way,
for Brood's love for his friend was broad enough even to admit of that.
He was to share his life in retrospect with Desmond and the two old men,
as he had shared it with them in reality.
Lydia's room, adjoining her mother's, was on the third floor at the foot
of the small stairway leading up to the proscribed retreat at the top
of the house. There was a small sitting-room off the two bed-chambers,
given over entirely to Mrs Desmond and her daughter. In this little room
Frederic Brood spent many a quiet, happy hour.
The Desmonds, mother and daughter, understood and pitied the lonely boy
who came to the big house soon after they were themselves installed. His
heart, which had many sores, expanded and glowed in the warmth of their
kindness and affection; the plague of unfriendliness that was his by
absorption gave way before this unexpected kindness, not immediately, it
is true, but completely in the end.
By nature he was slow to respond to the advances of others; his life had
been such that avarice accounted for all that he received from others
in the shape of respect and consideration. He was prone to discount
a friendly attitude, for the simple reason that in his experience all
friendships were marred by the fact that their sincerity rested entirely
upon the generosity of the man who paid for them--his father. No one had
loved him for himself; no one had given him an unselfish thought in all
the years of his boyhood.
The family with whom he had lived in a curious sort of retirement up to
the time he was fifteen had no real feeling for him beyond the bounds of
duty; his tutors had taken their pay in exchange for all they gave; his
companions were men and women who dealt with him as one deals with a
precious investment. He represented ease and prosperity to them--no more.
As he grew older he understood all this. What warmth there may have been
in his little heart was chilled by contact with these sordid influences.
At first he held himself aloof from the Desmonds; he was slow to
surrender. He suspected them of the same motives that had been the basis
of all previous attachments. When at last he realised that they were not
like the others, his cup of joy, long an empty vessel, was filled to the
brim and his happiness was without bounds.
They were amazed by the transformation. The rather sullen,
unapproachable lad became at once so friendly, so dependent, that,
had they not been acquainted with the causes behind the old state of
reticence, his very joy might have made a
nuisance of him. He followed Mrs Desmond
about in very much the
same spirit that inspires a hungry dog; he watched her with eager,
half-famished eyes; he was on her heels four-fifths of the time.
As for Lydia, pretty little Lydia, he adored her. His heart began for
the first time to sing with the joy of youth, and the sensation was a
novel one. It had seemed to him that he could never be anything but an
old man.
Not a day passed during his career at Harvard that he failed to write
to one or other of these precious friends. His vacations were spent
with them; his excursions were never carried out unless they found it
possible to accompany him. He followed Mrs Desmond, met many women, but
he thought of only two. They appeared to constitute all femininity so
far as he was concerned. Through their awakening influence he came to
find pleasure in the companionship of other young men, and, be it said
for him, despite a certain unconquerable aloofness, he was one of the
most popular men in his class.
It was his custom, on coming home for the night, no matter what the
hour, to pause before Lydia's door on the way to his own room at the
other end of the long hall. There was always a tender smile on his lips
as he regarded the white panels before tapping gently with the tips of
his fingers. Then he would wait for the sleepy “Good night, Freddy,”
which invariably came from within, and he would sing out “Good night”
as he made off to bed. Usually, however, he was at home long before her
bedtime, and they spent the evenings together. That she was his father's
secretary was of no moment. To him she was Lydia--his Lydia.
For the past three months or more he had been privileged to hold her
close in his arms and to kiss her good night at parting. They were
lovers now. The slow fuse of passion had reached its end and the flame
was alive and shining with radiance that enveloped both of them.
On this night, however, he passed her door without knocking. His dark,
handsome face was flushed and his teeth were set in sullen anger. With
his hand on the knob of his own door, he suddenly remembered that he
had failed Lydia for the first time, and stopped. A pang of shame shot
through him. For a moment he hesitated and then started guiltily toward
the forgotten door. Even as he raised his hand to sound the loving
signal, the door was opened and Lydia, fully dressed, confronted him.
For a moment they regarded each other in silence, she intently, he with
astonishment not quite free from confusion.
“I'm--I'm sorry, dearest----” he began, his first desire being to account
for his oversight.
“It _is_ bad news?” she demanded, anxiously watching his face. “I was
afraid, dear. I couldn't go to bed.”
“You, too?” he exclaimed bitterly. “The old chaps--but it's a shame for
you to have waited up, dear.”
“Tell me what has happened. It can't be that your father is ill--or in
danger. You are angry, Frederic; so it can't be that. What is it?”
He looked away sullenly.
“Oh, it's really nothing, I suppose. Just an unexpected jolt, that's
all. I was angry for a moment----”
“You are still angry,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. She was a
tall, slender girl. Her eyes were almost on a level with his own. “Don't
you want to tell me, dear?”
“He never gives me a thought,” he said, compressing his lips. “He thinks
of no one but himself. God, what a father!”
“Freddy, dear! You must not speak----”
“Haven't I some claim on his consideration? Is it fair that I should be
ignored in everything, in every way? I won't put up with it, Lydia! I'm
not a child. I'm a man and I am his son. But I might as well be a dog in
the street for all the thought he gives to me!”
She put her finger to her lips, a scared look stealing into her dark
eyes. Jones was conducting the two old men to their room on the floor
below. A door closed softly. The voices died away.
“He is a strange man,” she said. “He is a good man, Frederic.”
“To everyone else, yes. But to me? Why, Lydia, I--I believe he hates me.
You know what----”
“Hush! A man does not hate his son. I've tried for years to drive that
silly notion out of your mind. You----”
“Oh, I know I'm a fool to speak of it, but I--I can't help feeling as I
do. You've seen enough to know that I'm not to blame for it, either. And
then--oh, what's the use whining about it? I've got to make the best of
it, so I'll try to keep my mouth closed.”
“Where is the message?”
“I threw it into the fire.”
“What!”
“I was furious.”
“Won't you tell me?”
“What do you think he has done? Can you guess what he has done to all of
us?” She did not answer. “Well, I'll tell you just what he said in that
wireless. It was from the _Lusitania_, twelve hundred miles off Sandy
Hook--relayed, I suppose, so that the whole world might know--sent at
four this afternoon. I remember every word of the cursed thing, although
I merely glanced at it.
“'Send the car to meet Mrs Brood and me at the Cunard pier Thursday.
Have Mrs Desmond put the house in order for its new mistress. By the
way, you might inform her that I was married last Wednesday in Paris.'
It was signed 'James Brood,' not even 'father.' What do you think of
that for a thunderbolt?”
“Married?” she gasped. “Your father married?”
“'Put the house in order for its new mistress,'” he almost snarled.
“'Inform her that I was married last Wednesday'! Of course he's married.
Am I not to inform your mother? Isn't the car to meet Mrs Brood and him?
Does he say anything about his son meeting him at the pier? No! Does he
cable his son that he is married? No! Does he do anything that a real,
human father would do? No! That message was a deliberate insult to me,
Lydia, a nasty, rotten slap in the face. I mean the way it was worded.
Just as if it wasn't enough that he had gone and married some cheap
show-girl or a miserable foreigner or Heaven knows----”
“Freddy! You forget yourself. Your father would not marry a cheap
show-girl. You know that. And you must not forget that your mother was a
foreigner.”
“I'm sorry I said that,” he exclaimed hoarsely. Then fiercely: “But
can't you see what all this will come to? A new mistress of the house!
It means your mother will have to go--that maybe you'll go. Nothing will
be as it has been. All the sweetness gone--all the goodness! A woman in
the house who will also treat me as if I didn't belong here! A woman
who married him for his money, an adventuress. Oh, you can't tell me; I
know! 'You might inform Mrs Desmond that I was married'! Good Lord!”
He began to pace the floor, striking one fist viciously in the palm of
the other hand. Lydia, pale and trembling, seemed to have forgotten his
presence. She was staring fixedly at the white surface of a door down
the hall, and there was infinite pain in her wide eyes. Her lips moved
once or twice; there was a single unspoken word upon them.
“Why couldn't he have wired me last week?” the young man was muttering.
“What was his object in waiting until to-day? Wouldn't any other father
in the world have telegraphed his only son if he were going to--to bring
someone home like this? 'Have the car meet Mrs Brood and me'! If that
isn't the quintessence of scorn! He orders me to do these things. He
doesn't even honour me with a direct, personal message. He doesn't tell
_me_ he is married. He asks me to inform someone else.”
Lydia, leaning rather heavily against the door, spoke to him in a low,
cautious voice.
“Did you tell Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs?”
He stopped short.
“No! And they waited up to see if they could be of any assistance to
him in an hour of peril! What a joke! Poor old beggars! I've never felt
sorry for them before, but, on my soul, I do now. What will she do to
the poor old chaps? I shudder to think of it. And she'll make short
work of everything else she doesn't like around here, too. Your mother,
Lydia--why, God help us, you know what will just have to happen in her
case. It's----”
“Don't speak so loudly, dear--please, please! She is asleep. Of course,
we--we shan't stay on, Freddy. We'll have to go as soon as----”
His eyes filled with tears. He seized her in his arms and held her
close.
“It's a beastly, beastly shame, darling. Oh, Lord, what a fool a man can
make of himself!”
“You must not say such things,” she murmured, stroking his cheek with
cold, trembling fingers.
“A fine trick to play on all of us!” he grated.
“Listen, Freddy darling: your father has a right to do as he chooses.
He has a right to companionship, to love, to happiness. He has done
everything for us that man could----”
“But why couldn't he have done the fine, sensible thing, Lydia? Why
couldn't he have--have fallen in love with--with your mother? Why not have
married her if he had to marry someone in----”
“Freddy!” she cried, putting her hand over his mouth.
He was not to be stopped. He gently removed her hand.
“Your mother is the finest woman in the world. Perhaps she wouldn't have
him, but that's not the point. Good Lord, how I would have loved him for
giving her to me as a mother. And here he comes, bringing some devil of
a stranger into--oh, it's sickening!”
He had lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, keeping his eyes fixed on
the door down the hall. The girl lay very still in his arms. Suddenly a
wild sob broke in her throat, and she buried her face on his shoulder.
“Why--why, don't cry, dearest! Don't!” he whispered miserably. “What a
rotter I am! Inflicting you with my silly imaginings! Don't cry! I dare
say everything will turn out all right. It's my beastly disposition.
Kiss me!”
She kissed him swiftly. Her wet cheek lay for a second against his own,
and then, with a stifled good night, she broke away from him. An instant
later she was gone; her door was closed.
Somewhat sobered, and not a little perturbed by her outburst, he stood
still for a moment, staring at the door. Then he turned and passed
slowly into his own room.
A fire smouldered in the grate. In this huge, old-fashioned house there
were grates in all of the spacious bedrooms, and not infrequently fires
were started in them by the capable Jones. Frederic stood for he knew
not how long above the half-dead coals, staring at them with a new
and more bitter complaint at the back of his mind. Was there anything
between Mrs Desmond and his father? What was back of that look of
anguish in Lydia's eyes? He suddenly realised that he was muttering
oaths, not of anger, but of pain.
The next morning he came down earlier than was his custom. His night had
been a troubled one. Forgetting his own woes, or belittling them, he had
thought only of what this news from the sea would mean to the dear
woman he loved so well. No one was in the library, but a huge fire was
blazing. A blizzard was raging.
Once upon a time, when he first came to the house, a piano had stood in
the drawing-room. His joy at that time knew no bounds; he loved music.
For his age he was no mean musician. But one evening his father, coming
in unexpectedly, heard the player at the instrument. For a moment he
stood transfixed in the doorway watching the eager, almost inspired face
of the lad, and then, pale as a ghost, stole away without disturbing
him. Strange to say, Frederic was playing a waltz of Ziehrer's, a Waltz
that his mother had played when the honeymoon was in the full. The
following day the piano was taken away by a storage company. The boy
never knew why it was removed.
Frederic picked up the morning paper. His eye traversed the front page
rapidly. There were reports of fearful weather at sea. Ships in touch
with wireless stations flashed news of the riotous gales far out on the
Atlantic, of tremendous seas that wreaked damage to the staunchest of
vessels. The whole seaboard was strewn with the wreckage of small craft;
a score of vessels were known to be ashore and in grave peril. The
movement of passenger-vessels, at the bottom of the page, riveted his
attention. The _Lusitania_ was reported seven hundred miles out, and in
the heart of the hurricane. She would be a day late.
The newspaper was slightly crumpled, as if someone else had read
it before him. He found himself wondering how he would feel if the
_Lusitania_ never reached New York! He wondered what his sensations
would be if a call for help came from the great vessel, if the dreadful
news came that she was sinking with all on board!
He looked up from the paper with what actually seemed to him to be a
guilty feeling. Someone had entered the room. Mrs Desmond was coming
toward him, a queer little smile on her lips. She was a tall, fair
woman, an English type, and still extremely handsome. Hers was an honest
beauty that had no fear of age.
“She is a staunch ship, Frederic,” she said, without any other form of
greeting. “She will be late, but there's really nothing to worry about.”
“I'm not worrying,” he said confusedly. “Lydia has told you the--the
news?”
“Yes.”
“Rather staggering, isn't it?” he said with a wry smile. In spite of
himself he watched her face with curious intentness.
“Rather,” she said briefly.
He was silent for a moment.
“I was instructed to inform you that he was married last Wednesday,”
he said, and his face hardened. “And to have the car meet them at the
dock.”
“It won't be necessary, Frederic. I have given Jones his instructions.
You will not even have to carry out the orders.”
“I suppose you don't approve of the way.”
“I know just how you feel, poor boy. Don't try to explain. I know.”
“You always understand,” he said, lowering his eyes.
“Not always,” she said quietly. There was something cryptic in the
remark. He kept his eyes averted.
“Well, it's going to play hob with everything,” he said, jamming his
hands deep into his pockets. His shoulders seemed to hunch forward and
to contract.
“I am especially sorry for Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs,” she said. Her voice
was steady and full of earnestness.
“Do they know?”
“They were up and about at daybreak, poor souls. Do you know, Freddy,
they were starting off in this blizzard when I met them in the hall!”
“The deuce! I--I hope it wasn't on account of anything I may have said to
them last night,” he cried in contrition.
She smiled. “No. They had their own theory about the message. The storm
strengthened it. They were positive that your father was in great
peril. I don't like to tell you this, but they seemed to think that you
couldn't be depended upon to take a hand in--in--well, in helping him.
They were determined to charter a vessel of some sort and start off
in all this blizzard to search the sea for Mr Brood. Oh, aren't they
wonderful?”
He had no feeling of resentment toward the old men for their opinion of
him. Instead, his eyes glowed with an honest admiration.
“By George, Mrs Desmond, they _are_ great! They are _men_, bless their
hearts. Seventy-five years old and still ready to face anything for a
comrade! It _does_ prove something, doesn't it?”
“It proves that your father has made no mistake in selecting his
friends, my dear. My husband used to say that he would cheerfully die
for James Brood, and he knew that James Brood would have died for him
just as readily. There is something in friendships of that sort that we
can't understand. We never have been able to test our friends, much less
ourselves. We----”
“I would die for you, Mrs Desmond,” cried Frederic, a deep flush
overspreading his face. “For you and Lydia.”
“You come by that naturally,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm.
“Blood will tell. Thank you, Frederic.” She smiled. “I am sure it will
not be necessary for you to die for me, however. As for Lydia, you must
live, not die, for her.”
“I'll do both,” he cried impulsively.
“Before you go in to breakfast I want to say something else to you,
Frederic,” said she seriously. “Lydia has repeated everything you said
to her last night. My dear boy, my husband has been dead for twelve
years. I loved him, and he died loving me. I shall never marry another
man. I am still the wife of John Desmond; I still consider myself bound
to him. Can you understand?”
“I talked like a lunatic last night, I fear,” he confessed. “I might
have known. You, too, belong to the list of loyal ones. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, dear,” she said simply. “And now, one more
word, Frederic. You must accept this new condition of affairs in the
right spirit. Your father has married again, after all these years. It
is not likely that he has done so without deliberation. Therefore, it is
reasonable to assume that he is bringing home with him a wife of whom he
at least is proud, and that should weigh considerably in your summing
up of the situation. She will be beautiful, accomplished, refined, and
good, Frederic. Of that you may be sure. Let me implore you to withhold
judgment until a later day.”
“I do not object to the situation, Mrs Desmond,” said he, the angry
light returning to his eyes, “so much as I resent the wording of that
telegram. It is always just that way. He loses no chance to humiliate
me. He----”
“Hush! You are losing your temper again.”
“Well, who wouldn't? And here's another thing, the very worst of all.
How is this new condition going to affect you, Mrs Desmond?” She was
silent for a moment.
“Of course, I shan't stay on here, Frederic. I shall not be needed now.
As soon as Mrs Brood is settled here I shall go.”
“And you expect me to be cheerful and contented!” he cried bitterly.
“You are a man, Frederic. It is for you to say yea and nay; women must
say one or the other. A man may make his own bed, but he doesn't always
have to lie in it.”
“Sounds rather like Solomon,” he said ruefully. “I suppose you mean
that if I'm not contented here I ought to get out and look for happiness
elsewhere, reserving the right to come back if I fail?”
“Something of the sort,” she said.
“My father objects to my going into business or taking up a profession.
I am dependent on him for everything. But why go into that? We've talked
it over a thousand times. I don't understand, but perhaps you do. It's a
dog's way of living.”
“Your father is making a man of you.”
“Oh, he is, eh?” with great scorn.
“Yes. He will make you see some day that the kind of life you lead is
not the kind you want. Your pride, your ambition will rebel. Then you
will make something out of life for yourself.”
“I don't think that is in his mind, if you'll pardon me. I sometimes
believe he actually wants me to stay as I am, always a dependent.
Why, how can he expect me to marry and----” He stopped short, his face
paling.
“Go on, please.”
“Well, it looks to me as if he means to make it impossible for me to
marry, Mrs Desmond. I've thought of it a good deal.”
“And is it impossible?”
“No. I shall marry Lydia, even though I have to dig in the streets
for her. It isn't that, however. There's some other reason back of his
attitude, but for the life of me I can't get at it.”
“I wouldn't try to get at it, my dear,” she said. “Wait and see. Come,
you must have your coffee. I am glad you came down early. The old
gentlemen are at breakfast now. Come in.”
He followed her dejectedly, a droop to his shoulders.
Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs were seated at the table. Lydia, a trifle pale and
distrait, was pouring their third cup of coffee. The old men showed no
sign of their midnight experience. They were very wideawake, clear-eyed,
and alert, as old men will be who do not count the years of life left in
the span appointed for them.
“Good morning, Freddy,” said they, almost in one voice.
As he passed behind their chairs on his way to Lydia's side, he slapped
each of them cordially on the back. They seemed to swell with relief and
gratitude. He was not in the habit of slapping them on the back.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said he. Then he lifted Lydia's slim fingers
to his lips. “Good morning, dear.”
She squeezed his fingers tightly and smiled. A look of relief leaped
into her eyes; she drew a long breath. She poured his coffee for
him every morning. Her hand shook a little as she lifted the tiny
cream-pitcher.
“I didn't sleep very well,” she explained in a low voice.
His hand rested on her shoulder for a moment in a gentle caress. Then he
sat down in the chair Jones had drawn out for him.
“Well, gentlemen, when does the relief boat start?” he asked, with a
forced attempt at humour.
Mr Dawes regarded him with great solemnity.
“Freddy, it's too late. A man can be saved from the scourge, tigers,
elephants, lions, snakes, and almost everything else in God's world,
but, blast me, he can't be protected against women! They are deadly.
They can overpower the strongest of men, sir. Your poor father is lost
for ever. I never was so sorry for anyone in my life.”
“If he had only called for help a week or so ago, we could have saved
him,” lamented Mr Riggs. “But he never even peeped. Lordy, Lordy, and
just think of it, he yelled like an Indian when that lion leaped on him
at Nairobi!”
“Poor old Jim!” sighed Mr Dawes. “He'll probably have to ask us to pull
out, too. I imagine she'll insist on making a spare bedroom out of our
room, so's she can entertain all of her infernal relations. Jones, will
you give me some more bacon and another egg?”
“And I thought it was nothing but a shipwreck,” murmured Mr Riggs
plaintively.
Frederic hurried through breakfast. Lydia followed him into the library.
“Are you going out, dear?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes. I've got to do something. I can't sit still and think of what's
going to happen. I'll be back for luncheon.”
Half an hour later he was in the small bachelor apartment of two college
friends, a few blocks farther up-town, and he was doing the thing he did
nearly every day of his life in a surreptitious way. He sat at the cheap
upright piano in their disordered living-room and, unhampered by the
presence of young men who preferred music as it is rendered for the
masses, played as if his very soul was in his fingers.
CHAPTER III
The next three or four days passed slowly for those who waited. A
spirit of uneasiness pervaded the household. Among the servants, from
Jones down, there was dismay. It was not even remotely probable that Mrs
Desmond would remain, and they confessed to a certain affection for her,
strange as it may appear to those who know the traits of servants who
have been well treated by those above them.
Frederic flatly refused to meet the steamer when she docked. As if
swayed by his decision, Dawes and Riggs likewise abandoned a plan
to greet the returning master and his bride as they came down the
gangplank. But for the almost peremptory counsel of Mrs Desmond, Brood's
son would have absented himself from the house on the day of their
arrival. Jones and a footman went to the pier with the chauffeur.
It was half-past two in the afternoon when the automobile drew up in
front of the house and the fur-coated footman nimbly hopped down and
threw open the door.
James Brood, a tall, distinguished-looking man of fifty, stepped out of
the limousine. For an instant, before turning to assist his wife from
the car, he allowed his keen eyes to sweep the windows on the lower
floor. In one of them stood his son, holding the lace curtains apart and
smiling a welcome that seemed sincere. He waved his hand to the man on
the side-walk. Brood responded with a swift, almost perfunctory gesture,
and then held out his hand to the woman who was descending.
Frederic's intense gaze was fixed on the stranger who was coming into
his life. At a word from Brood she glanced up at the window. The smile
still lingered on the young man's lips, but his eyes were charged with
an expression of acute wonder. She smiled, but he was scarcely aware of
the fact. He watched them cross the side-walk and mount the steps.
He had never looked upon a more beautiful creature in all his life. A
kind of stupefaction held him motionless until he heard the door close
behind them. In that brief interval a picture had been impressed upon
his senses that was to last for ever.
She was slightly above the medium height, slender and graceful even in
the long, thick coat that enveloped her. She did not wear a veil. He had
a swift but enduring glimpse of dark, lustrous eyes; of long lashes that
drooped; of a curiously pallid, perfectly modelled face; of red lips and
very white teeth; of jet-black hair parted above a broad, clear brow
to curtain the temple and ear; of a firm, sensitive chin. Somehow he
received the extraordinary impression that the slim, lithe body was
never cold; that she expressed in some indefinable way the unvarying
temperature of youth.
He hurried into the hall, driven by the spur of duty. They were crossing
the vestibule. Jones, who had preceded them in a taxicab, was holding
open the great hall door. Dawes and Higgs, shivering quite as much
with excitement as from the chilly blast that swept in through
|
'Take what you will.' But when
you tell me, and I know that your object is, with this same wealth of
mine, to levy war in this kingdom, and tear the land with the strife
of faction, I tell you I have not the key, and say it is impossible. I
say it is impossible for me, with my convictions, to let you have this
money for such purposes."
"Now look you here," cried the Duke of Orleans; "how these good men
will judge of matters that they know not, and deal with things beyond
their competence! Here, my good friend, you erect yourself into a
judge of my plans, my purposes, and their results--at once testify
against me, and pronounce the judgment."
"Nay, my good lord, not so," replied Jacques C[oe]ur. "You ask me to
do a thing depending on myself; and many a man would call various
considerations to counsel before he said yea or nay; would ask himself
whether it was convenient, whether there was a likelihood of gain,
whether there was a likelihood of loss, whether he affected your side
or that of Burgundy. Now, so help me Heaven, as not one of these
considerations weighs with me for a moment. I have asked myself but
one question: 'Is this for the good of my country? Is it for the
service of my king?' Your highness laughs, but it is true; and the
answer has been 'No.'"
"Jacques C[oe]ur, thou art a good and honest man," replied the duke,
laying his hand upon the merchant's sleeve, and looking in his face
gravely; "but you drive me to give you explanations, which I think, as
my friend and favorer, you might have spared. The spendthrift gives
such explanations, summons plausible excuses, and tells a canting tale
of how he came in such a strait, when he goes to borrow money of a
usurer; but methinks such things should have no place between Louis of
Orleans, the king's only brother, and his friend Jacques C[oe]ur."
"Ah, noble prince," cried the merchant, very much touched. But the
duke did not attend to his words; and, rising from his seat, threw
back his fine and stately head, saying, "The explanation shall be
given, however. I seek not one denier of this money for myself. My
revenues are ample, more than ample for my wishes. My court is a very
humble one, compared with that of Burgundy. But I seek this sum to
enable me to avert dangers from France, which I see coming up
speedily, like storms upon the wind. I need not tell you, Jacques
C[oe]ur, my brother's unhappy state, nor how he, who has ever
possessed and merited the love of all his subjects, is, with rare
intervals, unconscious of his kingly duties. The hand of God takes
from him, during the greater part of life, the power of wielding the
sceptre which it placed within his grasp."
"I know it well, your highness," replied the merchant.
"His children are all young, Jacques C[oe]ur," continued the duke;
"and there are but two persons sufficiently near in blood, and eminent
in station, to exercise the authority in the land which slips from the
grasp of the monarch--the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke of Orleans.
The one, though a peer of France and prince of its blood royal, holds
possessions which render him in some sorts a foreigner. Now God forbid
that I should speak ill of my noble cousin of Burgundy; but he is a
man of mighty power, and not without ambition--honorable, doubtless,
but still high-handed and grasping. Burgundy and Flanders, with many a
fair estate and territory besides, make up an almost kingly state, and
I would ask you yourself if he does not well-nigh rule in France
likewise. Hear me out, hear me out! You would say that he has a right
to some influence here, and so he has. But I would have this
_well-nigh_, not _quite_. I pledge you my word that my sole object is
to raise up such a power as to awe my good cousin from too great and
too dangerous enterprises. Were it a question of mere right--whose is
the right to authority here, till the king's children are of an age to
act, but the king's brother? Were it a question of policy--in whom
should the people rely but in him whose whole interests are identified
with this monarchy? Were it a question of judgment--who is so likely
to protect, befriend, and direct aright the children of the king as
the uncle who has fostered their youth, and loved them even as his
own? There is not a man in all France who suspects me of wishing aught
but their good. I fear not the Duke of Burgundy so much as to seek to
banish him from all power and authority in the realm; but I only
desire that his authority should have a counterpoise, in order that
his power may never become dangerous. And now tell me, Jacques
C[oe]ur, whether my objects are such as you can honestly refuse to
aid, remembering that I have used every effort, in a peaceful way, to
induce my cousin of Burgundy to content himself with a lawful and
harmless share of influence."
"My lord, I stand rebuked," replied Jacques C[oe]ur. "But, if your
highness would permit me, I would numbly suggest that efforts might
strike others, to bring about the happy object you propose, which may
have escaped your attention."
"Name them--name them," cried the Duke of Orleans, somewhat warmly.
"By heaven's queen, I think I have adopted all that could be devised
by mortal man. Name them, my good friend," he added, in a milder tone.
"Nay, royal sir," replied Jacques C[oe]ur," it is not for one so
humble as myself to suggest any remedies in such a serious case; but I
doubt not your relatives, the Dukes of Alençon and Berri, and the good
King of Sicily, so near and dear to you, might, in their wisdom, aid
you with advice which would hold your honor secure, promote the
pacification of the realm, and attain the great object that you have
in view."
The Duke of Orleans made no reply, but walked once or twice up and
down the hall, with his arms folded on his chest, apparently in deep
thought. At length, however, he stopped before Jacques C[oe]ur, and
laid his finger on his breast, saying, in a grave and inquiring tone,
"What would men think of me, my friend, if Louis of Orleans, in a
private quarrel with John of Burgundy, were to call in the soft
counsels of Alençon, of Berri, and Anjou? Would not men say that he
was afraid?"
The slightest possible smile quivered for an instant on the lips of
Jacques C[oe]ur, but he replied, gravely and respectfully, "First, I
would remark, your highness, that this is not a private quarrel, as I
understand it, but a cause solely affecting the good of the realm."
The Duke of Orleans smiled also, with a gay, conscious, half-detected
smile; but Jacques C[oe]ur proceeded uninterrupted, saying, "Secondly,
I should boldly answer that men would dare say nothing. The prince who
boldly bearded Henry the Fourth of Lancaster on his usurped throne, to
do battle hand to hand, in the hour of his utmost triumph and
success,[1] could never be supposed afraid of any mortal man. Believe
me, my lord, the thought of fear has never been, and never can be
joined with the name of Louis of Orleans."
"Ah, Jacques C[oe]ur, Jacques C[oe]ur," replied the prince, laughing,
"art thou a flatterer too?"
"If so, an honest one," answered the merchant; "and, without daring to
dictate terms to your highness, let me add that, should you--thinking
better of this case--employ the counsels of the noble princes I have
mentioned, and their efforts prove unsuccessful, then, convinced that
the last means for peace have been tried and failed, I shall find my
duty and my wishes reconciled, and the last livre that I have, should
I beg my bread in the streets as a common mendicant, will be freely
offered in your just cause."
There was a warmth, a truth, a sincerity in the great merchant's words
that seemed to touch his noble auditor deeply. The duke threw himself
into his seat again, and covered his eyes for a moment or two; then,
taking Jacques C[oe]ur's hand, he pressed it warmly, saying, "Thanks,
my friend, thanks. I have urged you somewhat hardly, perhaps, but I
know you wish me well. I believe your advice is good. Pride, vanity,
whatever it is, shall be sacrificed. I will send for my noble cousins,
consult with them, and, if the bloody and disastrous arbitrement of
war can be avoided, it shall be so. Many may bless the man who stayed
it; and although, in their ignorance, they may not add the name of
Jacques C[oe]ur to their prayers, there is a Being who has seen you
step between princes and their wrath, and who himself has said,
'Blessed are the peacemakers.'"
The duke then leaned his head upon his hand, and fell into thought
again.
All this time, while a somewhat long and interesting conversation had
been taking place in his presence, Jean Charost had been standing a
few steps behind Jacques C[oe]ur, without moving a limb; and, in
truth, so deeply attentive to all that was passing, that he hardly
ventured to draw a breath. The whole scene was a lesson to him,
however; a lesson never forgot. He saw the condescension and kindness,
the familiar friendship which the brother of the King of France
displayed toward the simple merchant; but he saw, also, that no
familiarity induced Jacques C[oe]ur for one moment to forget respect,
or to abate one tittle of the reverence due to the duke's station. He
saw that it was possible to be bold and firm, even with a royal
personage, and yet to give him no cause of offense, if he were in
heart as noble as in name. Both the principal personages in the room,
however, in the mighty interests involved in their discourse, seemed
to have forgotten his presence altogether; indeed, one of them,
probably, had hardly even perceived him. But at length the duke,
waking up, as it were, from the thoughts which had absorbed him, with
his resolution taken and his course laid out, raised his eyes toward
Jacques C[oe]ur, as if intending to continue the conversation with
some further announcement of his purposes. As he did so, he seemed
suddenly to perceive the figure of Jean Charost, standing in the half
light behind, and he exclaimed, quickly and eagerly, "Ha! who is that?
Who is that young man? Whence came he? What wants he?"
Jacques C[oe]ur started too; for he had totally forgotten the fact of
his having brought Jean Charost there. For an instant he looked
confused and agitated, but then recovered himself, and replied, "This
is the young gentleman whom I commended to your highness's service. In
the importance of the question you first put to me, I totally forgot
to present him to you."
The duke gazed in the face of Jean Charost as he advanced a step or
two into the light, seeming to question his countenance closely, and
for a moment there was a slight look of annoyance and anxiety in his
aspect which did not escape the eyes of Jacques C[oe]ur.
"Sir, I have committed a great fault," he said; "but it might have
been greater; for, although this young gentleman has heard all that we
have said, I will answer for his faith, his honesty, and his
discretion with my life."
Ere the words were uttered, however, the Duke of Orleans had recovered
himself entirely, and looking up frankly in Jacques C[oe]ur's face, he
answered, "As far as I can recollect our conversation, my good friend,
it contained not one word which either you or I should fear to have
blazoned to the whole realm of France. Come hither, young gentleman.
Are you willing to serve me?"
"If not willing before, sir," answered Jean Charost, "what I have
heard to-night would make me willing to shed the last drop of my blood
for your highness."
The duke smiled upon him kindly. "Good," he said; "good. You are of
noble race, my friend tells me."
"On all sides," answered Jean Charost. "Of the nobility of the sword."
"Well, then," said the duke, "we will soon find an office for you. Let
me think for a moment--"
But, ere the words had left his lips, there was a sharp rap at the
door, and, without waiting for permission, a man, dressed as a
superior servant, hurried in, followed by an elderly woman in an
extravagantly high _hennin_--a head-dress of the times--both bearing
eagerness and alarm on their countenance.
"I am sorry to tell your highness--" cried the man.
But the duke stopped him, exclaiming, "Hush!" with a look of anxiety
and alarm, and then advanced a step or two toward the newcomers, with
whom he spoke for a few moments in an eager whisper. He then took
several rapid strides toward the door, but paused ere he reached it,
and looking back, almost without stopping, exclaimed, "To-morrow, my
young friend; be with me to-morrow by nine. I will send for you in the
evening, Maître Jacques. I trust then to have news for you. Excuse me
now; something has happened."
CHAPTER IV.
For a moment after the Duke of Orleans had quitted the hall, Jacques
C[oe]ur and his young companion stood looking at each other in
silence; for the agitation which the prince had displayed was far
greater than persons in his rank usually suffered to appear. Those
were the days when strong passions lay concealed under calm exteriors,
and terrible deeds were often meditated and even executed under cover
of the most tranquil aspect.
"Come, Jean, my friend." said the merchant, at length; "let us go. We
must not pause here with these papers on the table."
As he spoke, he walked toward the door; but, before he quitted the
house, he sought diligently in the outer vestibule and the neighboring
rooms for some of the domestics. All seemed to be in confusion,
however, and though steps were heard moving about in various
directions, as if some general search were being made, several minutes
elapsed before even a page or a porter could be found. At length a boy
of about twelve years of age presented himself, and him Jacques
C[oe]ur directed, in a tone of authority, to place himself at the door
of the little hall, and neither to go in himself nor let any one enter
till he had an opportunity of letting the duke know that he had left
the papers he was writing on the table.
"Something has moved his highness very greatly," said Jacques C[oe]ur,
as he walked through the streets with his young companion. "He is not
usually so careless of what he writes."
"I have always heard him called the gay Duke of Orleans," said Jean
Charost, "and I certainly was surprised to find him so grave and
thoughtful."
"There are many ways of being thoughtful, my young friend," replied
the merchant, "and a light and smiling air, a playful fancy, and a
happy choice of words, with many persons--as has been the case with
the duke--conceal deep meaning and great strength of mind. He is,
indeed, one of the most thoughtful men in France. But his imagination
is somewhat too strong, and his passions, alas, stronger still. He is
frank, and noble, and generous, however--kind and forgiving; and I do
sincerely believe that he deeply regrets his faults, and condemns them
as much as any man in France. Many are the resolutions of reformation
that he makes; but still an ardent temperament, a light humor, and a
joyous spirit carries him away impulsively, and deeds are done, before
he well knows they are undertaken, which are bitterly repented
afterward."
Jacques C[oe]ur paused, and seemed to hesitate, as if he thought he
had almost gone too far with his young companion; but there were more
serious considerations pressing upon his mind at that moment than Jean
Charost, or even the Duke of Orleans, at all comprehended, though both
were affected by them. He was one of the most remarkable men of his
age; and although he had not at that time risen to the high point of
either honor or wealth which he afterward attained, he was in the high
road to distinction and to fortune--a road opened to him by no common
means. His vast and comprehensive mind perceived opportunities which
escaped the eyes of men more limited in intellect; his energetic and
persevering character enabled him to grasp and hold them; and,
together with these powers, so serviceable to any man in commercial or
political life, he possessed a still higher characteristic--a kindly
and a generous spirit, prompting to good deeds as well as to great
ones, always under the guidance of prudence and wisdom. He had,
moreover, that which I know not whether to call an art or a
quality--the capability of impressing almost all men with the truth of
his character. Few with whom he was brought in any close connection
doubted his judgment or his sincerity, and his true beneficence of
heart had the power of attaching others to him so strongly that even
persecution, sorrow, and misfortune could not break the bond.
In the present instance, he had two objects in view in placing Jean
Charost in the service of the Duke of Orleans; or, rather, he saw at
once that two objects might possibly be attained by that kind act. He
had provided, apparently, well and happily for a youth to whom he was
sincerely attached, and whom he could entirely trust, and he placed
near a prince for whom he had a great regard and some admiration,
notwithstanding all his faults, one whose character was likely to be
not without its influence, even upon a person far higher in station
and more brilliant as well as more experienced than himself.
Although he had full confidence in Jean Charost--although he knew that
there was an integrity of purpose, and a vigor of determination in the
youth, well fitted to stand all trials, he nevertheless thought that
some warning, some knowledge, at least of the circumstances in which
he was about to be placed, might be serviceable to himself, and give a
beneficial direction to any influence he might obtain with the duke.
To give this, was his object in turning the conversation at once to
the character of Louis of Orleans; but yet the natural delicacy of his
mind led him to hesitate, when touching upon the failings of his
princely friend. The higher purpose, however, predominated at length,
and he went boldly forward.
"It is necessary, Jean," he said, "to prepare you in some degree for
the scenes in which you will have to mingle, and especially to afford
you some information of the character of the prince you are about to
serve. I will mention no names, as there are people passing in the
street; but you will understand of whom I speak. He is habitually
licentious. The courts of kings are very generally depraved; and
impressions received in early life, however reason and religion may
fight against them at after periods, still leave a weak and assailable
point in the character not easily strengthened for resistance. Man's
heart is as a fortress, my young friend; a breach effected in the
walls of which is rarely, if ever, repaired with as much firmness as
at first. I do not wish to palliate his errors, for they are very
great, but merely to explain my anxiety to have good counsels near
him."
"It is very necessary, indeed, sir," replied Jean Charost, simply,
never dreaming that his counsels could be those to which Jacques
C[oe]ur alluded. "I have heard a good deal of the duke since we have
been here in Paris, and although all must love and admire his great
and noble qualities, yet it is sad to hear the tales men tell of him."
"Age and experience," replied Jacques C[oe]ur, "may have some effect;
nay, are already having an effect in rendering good resolutions
firmer, and the yielding to temptation less frequent. It is only
required now that some person having influence over him, and
constantly near him, should throw that influence into the scale of
right. I know not, my dear lad, whether you may or may not obtain
influence with him. He has promised me to treat you with all favor,
and to keep you as near his person as possible, and I feel quite sure
that if any opportunities occur of throwing in a word in favor of
virtue and good conduct, or of opposing vice and licentiousness, you
will not fail to seize it. I do not mean to instigate you to meddle in
the affairs of this prince, or to intrude counsels upon him. To do so
would be impertinent and wrong in one of your position; but he himself
may furnish opportunity. Consult you he will not; but converse with
you often, he probably will; and it is quite possible in a calm,
quiet, unobtrusive course, to set good counsel before him, without
appearing to advise, or pretending to meddle."
"I should fear," replied Jean Charost, "that he would converse very
little with a boy like me, certainly not attend much to my opinions."
"That will greatly depend upon the station you obtain in his
household," replied Jacques C[oe]ur. "If you are very much near his
person, I doubt not that he will. Those who give way to their passion,
Jean, and plunge into a sea of intrigue, are often in situations of
difficulty and anxiety, where they can find no counsel in their own
breasts, no comfort in their own hearts. It is then that they will fly
to any one who may happen to be near for help and resource. I only say
such things may happen, not that they will; but if they do, I trust to
you, Jean Charost, to use them to good purpose."
The conversation proceeded much in the same tone till they reached the
lodging of the merchant, and ascended once more to the small chamber
in which Jean Charost had been writing. By this time, according to the
notions of Jacques C[oe]ur, it was too late for any one to be out of
bed, and he and his young companion separated for the night. On the
following morning, however, when Jean descended to the counting-room,
or office, at an early hour, he found Jacques C[oe]ur already there,
and one or two of his servants with him. He heard orders given about
horses, and equipments of various kinds, before the great merchant
seemed aware of his presence. But when the servants were all
dispatched upon their various errands, Jacques turned and greeted him
kindly.
"Let us talk of a little business, my son," he said; "for in an hour's
time we shall have to part on our several ways; you to the Hôtel
d'Orleans, I back again to Bourges; for I am weary of this great city,
Jean, and besides, business calls me hence. Now let us, like good
merchants, reckon what it is I am in your debt."
"Nay, sir," answered Jean Charost, "it is I that am altogether in
yours; I do not mean alone for kindness, but even in mere money. I
have received more from you, I believe, than you promised to give me."
"More than the mere stipend, Jean," replied Jacques C[oe]ur; "but not
more than what was implied. I promised your mother, excellent lady,
God bless her, that I would give you a hundred crowns of the sun by
the year, and, moreover, whatever I found your assistance was worth to
me besides. I deal with it merely as a matter of account, Jean; and I
find that by the transactions with Genoa, partly carried on by
yourself in the last year, I have made a profit of sixteen per cent,
on invested money; on the business of Amalfi, transacted altogether by
yourself nineteen per cent.; on other business of a similar kind, with
which I and my ordinary clerks have had to do alone, an average of
fifteen per cent. Thus, in all affairs that you have dealt with, there
has been a gain over ordinary gains of somewhere between three and
four per cent. Now this surplus is to be divided between you and me,
according to my view of the case. I have looked into it closely, to do
justice to both, and I find that, as the transactions of this year
have been somewhat large, I am a debtor to you a sum of two thousand
seven hundred and forty-three crowns, two livres Parisis, and one
denier. There is a note of the account; I think you will find it
correct."
Poor Jean Charost was astonished and overcome. The small patrimony of
his father--just sufficient to maintain a man of gentle blood within
that narrow limit thronged with petty cares, usually called moderate
competence--a sort of myth, embellished by the poets--a kind of
economical Arcadia, in which that perfect happiness represented,
is as often found as the Arcadian shepherds and shepherdesses in
plum-colored velvet coats and pink ribbons are found in the real
pastoral--this small estate, I say, had been hypothecated to the
amount of three thousand crowns, to enable his father to serve and die
for his sovereign on the battle-field; and the great first object of
Jean Charost's ambition had been to enable his poor mother to pay off
a debt which, with its interest, was eating into the core of the
estate. Hitherto the prospect of success had seemed far, far away; he
had thought he could see it in the distance; but he had doubted, and
feared, and the long journey to travel had seemed to dim even the
sunrise of hope. But now the case was reversed; the prospect seemed
near, the object well-nigh attained, and for an instant or two he
could hardly believe his ears.
"Oh, sir," he exclaimed, after some murmured thanks, "take it to my
mother--take it all to my mother. It will make her heart leap for joy.
I shall want no money where I am going."
Jacques C[oe]ur gazed at him with the faint, rueful smile of age
listening to inexperience. "You will need more than you know, my good
youth," he answered. "Courts are very different places from merchant's
houses; and if great openings are there found, there are openings of
the purse likewise. But I know your object, my dear boy. It is a
worthy one, and you can gratify it to a certain extent, while you yet
retain the means of appearing as you should in the household of the
Duke of Orleans. I will take two thousand crowns to your mother. Then
only a thousand will remain to be paid upon the mortgage, which I will
discharge; and you shall repay me when your economy and your success,
in both of which I have great confidence, shall make it light for you
to do so."
Such was the kindly plan proposed by the merchant, and Jean Charost
acceded joyfully. It must not be denied that to be in possession of
seven hundred crowns seemed, in his young and untaught eyes, to put
him among the wealthy of the land. It must not be denied, either, that
the thought rose up of many things he wanted, of which he had never
much felt the want before. Among the rest, a horse seemed perfectly
indispensable but the kindness of Jacques C[oe]ur had beforehand
deprived him of all excuse for this not unreasonable expense. He found
that a fine horse, taken in payment of a debt from Spain, with bridle
and housings all complete, had been destined for his use by the great
merchant; and certainly well mounted, and, as he thought, well
equipped with all things, Jean Charost set out for the Hôtel
d'Orleans, at about half past eight o'clock, carrying a message from
Jacques C[oe]ur to the duke, to account for and excuse the sudden
departure of the merchant.
CHAPTER V.
To retrace one's steps is always difficult; and it may be as well,
whenever the urgency of action will permit it, in life, as in a tale
that is told, to pause a little upon the present, and not to hurry on
too rapidly to the future, lest the stern Irrevocable follow us too
closely. I know nothing more difficult, or more necessary to impress
upon the mind of youth, than the great and important fact, that every
thing, once done, is irrevocable; that Fate sets its seal upon the
deed and upon the word; that it is a bond to good or evil; that though
sometimes we may alter the conditions in a degree, the weightier
obligations of that bond can never be changed; that there is something
recorded in the great Book against us, a balance for, or adverse to
us, which speeds us lightly onward, or hampers all our after efforts.
No, no. There is no going back. As in the fairy tale, the forest
closes up behind us as we pass through, and in the great adventure of
life our only way is forward.
Life, in some of its phases, should always be the model of a book, and
to avoid the necessity of even trying to go far back, it may be as
well to pause here, and tell some events which had occurred even
within the space of time which our tale has already occupied.
In a chamber, furnished with fantastic splendor, and in a house not
far from the palace of the Duke of Orleans, stood a richly-decorated
bed. It was none of those scanty, parsimonious, modern contrivances,
in which space to turn seems grudged to the unhappy inmate, but a
large, stately, elaborate structure, almost a room in itself. The four
posts, at the four corners, were carved, and gilt, and ornamented with
ivory and gold. Groups of cupids, or cherubim, I know not well which,
supported the pillars, treading gayly upon flowers; and, as people
were not very considerate of harmony in those days, the sculptor of
this bed, for so I suppose we must call him, had added Corinthian
capitals to the posts, and crowned the acanthus of dark wood with
large plumes of real ostrich feathers. Round the valance, and on many
parts of the draperies, which were of a light crimson velvet, appeared
numerous inscriptions, embroidered in gold. Some were lines from poets
of the day, or old romances of the Langue d'oc, or Langue d'oil,
while, strange to say, others were verses from the Psalms of David.
On this bed lay a lady sweetly asleep, beautiful but pale, and bearing
traces of recent illness on her face; and beside her lay a babe which
seemed ten days or a fortnight old, swathed up according to the
abominable custom of the day, in what was then called _en mailotin_. A
lamp was on a table near, a vacant chair by the bedside, from which a
heedless nurse had just escaped to take a little recreation during her
lady's slumbers. All was still and silent in the room and throughout
the house. The long and narrow corridors were vacant; the lower hall
was far off. The silver bell, which was placed nigh at hand, might
have rang long and loud without calling any one to that bedside; but
the nurse trusted to the first calm slumber of the night, and
doubtless promised herself that her absence would not be long. It
proved long enough--somewhat too long, however.
The door opened almost without a sound, and a tall, gray figure
entered, which could hardly have been seen from the bed, in the
twilight obscurity of that side of the room, even had any eyes been
open there. It advanced stealthily to the side of the bed, with the
right hand hidden in the breast; but there, for a moment, whatever was
the intent, the figure paused, and the eyes gazed down upon the
sleeping woman and the babe by her side. Oh, what changes of
expression came, driven like storm-clouds, over that countenance, by
some tempest of passions within, and what a contrast did the man's
face present to that of the sleeping girl. It might be that the
wronger and the wronged were there in presence, and that calm,
peaceful sleep reigned quietly, where remorse, and anguish, and
repentance should have held their sway; while agony, and rage, and
revenge were busy in the heart which had done no evil.
Whether it was doubt, or hesitation, or a feeling of pity which
produced the pause, I can not tell; but whatever was the man's
purpose--and it could hardly be good--he stopped, and gazed for more
than one minute ere he made the intent a deed. At length, however, he
withdrew the right hand from his bosom, and something gleamed in the
lamp-light.
It is strange: the lady moved a little in her sleep, as if the gleam
of the iron had made itself felt, and she murmured a name. Her hand
and arm were cast carelessly over the bed-clothes; her left side and
breast exposed. The name she murmured seemed to act like a command;
for instantly one hand was pressed upon her lips, and the other struck
violently her side. The cry was smothered; the hands clutched the air
in vain: a slight convulsive effort to rise, an aguish shudder, and
all was still.
The assassin withdrew his hand, but left the dagger in the wound. Oh,
with what bitter skill he had done the deed! The steel had pierced
through and through her heart!
There he stood for a moment, and contemplated his handiwork. What was
in his breast--who can tell? But suddenly he seemed to start from his
dark revery, took the hand he had made lifeless in his own, and
withdrew a wedding ring from the unresisting finger.
Though passion is fond of soliloquy, he uttered but few words. "Now
let him come and look," he murmured; and then going rapidly round to
the other side of the bed, he snatched up the infant, cast part of his
robe around it, and departed.
Oh, what an awful, dreadful thing was the stillness which reigned in
that terrible chamber after the murderer was gone. It seemed as if
there were something more than silence there--a thick dull, motionless
air of death and guilt. It lasted a long while--more than half an
hour; and then, walking on tip-toe, came back the nurse. For a moment
or two she did not perceive that any thing had happened. All was so
quiet, so much as she had left it, that she fancied no change had
taken place. She moved about stealthily, arranged some silver cups and
tankards upon a _dressoir_, and smoothed out the damask covering with
its fringe of lace.
Presently there was a light tap at the door, and going thither on
tip-toe, she found one of the Duke of Orleans's chief servants come to
inquire after the lady's health.
"Hush!" said the nurse, lifting up her finger, "she is sleeping like
an angel."
"And the baby?" asked the man.
"She is asleep too," replied the nurse; "she has not given a cry for
an hour."
"That's strange!" said the man. "I thought babies cried every five
minutes."
Upon second thoughts, the nurse judged it strange too; and a certain
sort of cold dread came upon her as she remembered her long absence,
and combined it with the perfect stillness.
"Stay a moment: I'll just take a peep and tell you more;" and she
advanced noiselessly to the side of the bed. The moment she gazed in,
she uttered a fearful shriek. Nature was too strong for art or policy.
There lay the mother dead; the infant gone;
|
himself,
doubled up in the bottom of the landaulette, and me sitting there with
my foot on the clutch, my hand on the throttle, and my pulse going like
one o'clock. Should we do it or should we not? Would it be shut or
open? The question answered itself a moment later, when the
lodge-keeper, not seeing the other fellow, half opened the iron gates
and let my bonnet in between them. The car almost knocked him down as
we raced through--I could hear him bawling "Stop!" even above the hum
of the engine.
You will not have forgotten that his lordship had told me to go, hell
for leather, directly I was through the gate, and right well I obeyed
him. The lanes were narrow and twisty; there were morning mists
blowing up from the fields; we passed more than one market cart, and
nearly lost our wings. But I was out to earn fifteen of the best, and
right well I worked for them. Slap bang into Potter's Bar, slap bang
out of it and round the bend towards Prickly Hill. I couldn't have
driven faster if I had had the whole county police at my heels--and the
Lord knows whether I had or not.
This brought us to Barnet in next to no time. We were still doing
forty as we entered the town, and would have run out of it at
twenty-five after we'd passed the church and the police station--would
have, I say, but for one little fact, and that was a fat sergeant of
police right in the middle of the road, with his hand held up like a
leg of mutton, and a voice that might have been hailing a burglar.
"Here, you," he cried, as I drew up, "who have you got in that car?"
"Why," says I, "who should I have but somebody who has a right to be
there? Ask his lordship for himself."
"His lordship--do you mean Lord Crossborough?"
I went to say "Yes," just as he opened the door. You shall judge what
I thought of it when a glance behind me showed that the landaulette was
empty.
"Now, who are you making game of?" cried the sergeant, throwing the
door wide open. "There ain't no lordship in here. What do you mean by
saying there was?"
"Well, he was there when I left Five Corners----"
"What! you've come from his house?"
"Straight away," says I, "and no calls. Ask him for yourself."
He could see that I was flabbergasted and telling him the truth. There
was the landaulette as empty as a box of chocolates when the
parlourmaid has done with them. How Lord Crossborough got out or where
he had gone to when he did get out, I knew no more than the dead. One
thing was plain--I was as clean sold as any greenhorn at any country
fair. And I made no bones about telling the sergeant as much.
"He asked me to drive him down from town to his house at Five Corners.
My mistress told me to take him, and I did. I was to have fifteen of
the best for the job--and here you see what I get. Oh, you bet I'm
happy."
I spoke with some feeling, and you may be sure I felt pretty kind
towards Lord Crossborough just then. To be kept up all night and run
about like a "yellow breeches," to have my ears crammed with promises
and my skin drenched with the mists, to find myself stranded in Barnet
at the end. It was more than any man's temper could stand, and that I
told the sergeant.
"Well," says I, "next time I meet him, I shall have something pretty
strong to say to that same Lord Crossborough, and you may tell him so
when you see him."
"See him--I wish we could see him. There's half the county police
looking for him this minute. Oh, we'd like to see him all right, and a
few others as well. Now, you come down to the station and tell us all
about it. There'll be a cup of hot coffee there, and I daresay you
won't mind that."
I said that I wouldn't, and went along with him. An inspector at the
station took my story down from the time I set off from the Carlton to
the moment I quitted Five Corners. What he wanted it for, what Lord
Crossborough had done, or what he was going to do, they didn't tell me,
nor did I care. But they gave me a jolly good breakfast before they
sent me off, and that was about the best thing I had had for twelve
long hours. It was eleven o'clock when I got back to town at last.
And at three o'clock precisely I saw my mistress again.
You will readily imagine that I was glad of this interview, and had
been looking forward to it anxiously from the time I drove the car into
the stable until the moment it came off. Miss Dartel had a flat in
Bayswater just then; but she didn't send for me there, and it was at
the theatre I saw her, in her own dressing-room between the acts of a
rehearsal. A clean-shaven gentleman was talking to her when I went in,
and for a little while I didn't recognise him; but presently he turned
round, and something in his manner and tone of voice caused me to look
up sharp enough.
"Why," says I, "his lordship!"
They both laughed at this, and Miss Dartel held up her finger.
"Whatever are you saying, Britten?" cried she. "That's Mr. Jermyn, of
the Hicks Theatre."
"Jermyn or French," says I, my temper getting up, "he's the man I drove
to Five Corners last night--and fifteen pounds he owes me, neither more
nor less."
Well, they both laughed again, and the gentleman, he took a pocket-book
from the inside pocket of his coat and laid three five-pound notes on
the table. While they were there, Miss Dartel puts her pretty fingers
upon them, and begins to speak quite confidentially--
"Britten," says she, "there's fifteen pounds. I daresay it would be
fifty if you had a very bad memory, Britten, and couldn't recognise the
gentleman you picked up last night. Now, do you think you have such a
bad memory as all that?"
I twigged it in a minute, and answered them quite honestly.
"I must know more or less, madame," says I. "Remember my interests are
not this gentleman's interests."
"Oh, that's quite fair, Britten, though naturally, we know nothing.
But they do say that poor Lord Crossborough has gone quite silly about
the rural life. He's been reading Tolstoy's books, and wants to live
upon a shilling a day; while poor Lady Crossborough, who knows my
cousin, Captain Blackham, very well, she's bored to death, and it will
kill her if it goes on. So, you see, she persuaded his lordship to
give that funny party at his old house in Portman Square last night,
and all the papers are laughing at it to-day, and he'll be chaffed out
of his life. I'm sure Lady Crossborough will get her way now, Britten;
and when the police hear it was only an eccentricity upon his
lordship's part, they won't say anything. Now, do you think that you
would be able to swear that the man you drove last night was very like
Lord Crossborough? If so, it would be lucky, and I'm sure her ladyship
will give you fifty pounds."
I thought about it a minute, rolling up the notes and putting them into
my pocket. Of course I could swear as she wanted me to. And fifty of
the best. Good Lord, what a temptation!
But I'll tell you straight that I got the fifty, and never swore
nothing at all. The party was a job put up by Lady Crossborough. The
man I drove was Mr. Jermyn, of the Hicks Theatre, and the world and the
newspapers laughed so loud at his lordship, who never convinced anybody
he hadn't done it, that he went off to India in a hurry, and never came
back for twelve months. Which proves to me that honesty is the best
policy, as I shall always declare.
And one thing more--where did Mr. Jermyn get out of my car? Why, just
as I slowed up for the corner by the church at Barnet--not a hundred
yards from where the constable stopped me. A clever actor--why, yes,
he is that.
[1] The Editor has left Mr. Britten to speak for himself in his own
manner when that seems characteristic of his employment.
[2] Mr. Britten's spelling of Quat'z-Arts is eccentric.
II
THE SILVER WEDDING
Yes, I shall never forget "Benny," and I shall never forget his
beautiful red hair. Gentlemen, I have driven for many... and the
other sort, but "Benny" was neither the one nor the other--not a man,
but a tribe... not a Jew nor yet a Christian, but just something you
meet every day and all days--a big, blundering heap of good-nature,
which quarrels with one half the world and takes Bass's beer with the
other. That was Benjamin Colmacher--"Benny" for short--that was the
master I want to tell you about.
I was out of a job at the time, and had picked up an endorsement at
Hayward's Heath and left a matter of six pounds there for the justices
to get busy with. Time is money, they say, and I have found it to be
so... generally five pounds and costs, though more if you take a
quantity. It isn't easy for a good man with a road mechanic's
knowledge and five years' experience, racing and otherwise, to place
himself nowadays, when any groom can get made a slap-bang "shuffer" for
five pounds at a murder-shop, and any old coachman is young enough to
put his guv'nor in the ditch. My knowledge and my experience had gone
begging for exactly three months when I heard of Benny, and hurried
round to his flat off Russell Square, "just the chap for you," they
said at the garage. I thought so, too, when I saw him.
It was a fine flat, upon my word, and filled up with enough fal-de-lals
to please a duchess from the Gaiety. Benny himself, his red hair
combed flat on his head and oiled like a missing commutator, wore a
Japanese silk dressing-gown which would have fired a steam car. His
breakfast, I observed, consisted of one brandy-and-soda and a bunch of
grapes; but the cigar he offered me was as long as a policeman's boot,
and the fellow to it stuck out of a mouth as full of fine white teeth
as a pod of peas.
"Good-morning," says he, nodding affably enough; and then, "You are
Lionel Britten, I suppose?"
"Yes," says I--for no road mechanic who respects himself is going to
"sir" such as Benny Colmacher to begin with--"that's my name, though my
friends call me Lal for short. You're wanting a driver, I hear."
He sat himself in a great armchair and looked me up and down as a vet
looks at a horse.
"I do want a driver," says he, "though how you got to know it, the Lord
knows."
"Why," says I, "that's funny, isn't it? We're both wanting the same
thing, for I can see you're just the gentleman I would like to take on
with."
He smiled at this, and seemed to be thinking about it. Presently he
asked a plain question. I answered him as shortly.
"Where did you hear of me?" he asked.
"At Blundell's garage," I answered.
"And I was buying a car?"
"Yes, a fifty-seven Daimler... that was the talk."
"Could you drive a car like that?"
"Could I--oh, my godfathers----"
"Then you have handled fast cars?"
"I drove with Fournier in the Paris-Bordeaux, was through the Florio
for the Fiat people, and have driven the big Delahaye just upon a
hundred and three miles an hour. Read my papers, sir... they'll show
you what I've done."
I put a bundle into his hand, and he read a few words of them. When
next he looked at me, there was something in his eyes which surprised
me considerably. Some would have called it cunning, some curiosity; I
didn't know what to make of it.
"Why would you like to drive for me?" he asked presently.
"Because," said I, quickly enough, "it's plain that you're a gentleman
anybody would like to drive for."
"But you don't know anything at all about me."
"That's just it, sir. The nicest people are those we don't know
anything at all about."
He laughed loudly at this, and helped himself to the brandy-and-soda,
but didn't drink over-much of it. I could see that he was much
relieved, and he spoke afterwards with more freedom.
"You're one that knows how to hold his tongue?" he suggested. I
rejoined that, so far as tongues went, I had mine in a four-inch vice.
"Especially where the ladies are concerned?"
"I'd sooner talk to them than about them, sir."
"That's right, that's right. Don't take the maid when you can get the
mistress, eh?"
"Take 'em both for choice, that's my motto."
"You're not married, Britten?"
"No such misfortune has overtaken me, sir."
"Ha!"--here he leered just like an actor at the Vic--"and you don't
mind driving at night?"
"I much prefer it, sir."
He leered again, and seemed mightily pleased. A few more questions put
and answered found me with that job right enough... and a right good
job, too, as things are nowadays. I was to have four pounds a week and
liveries. Such a mug as "Benny" Colmacher would not be the man to ask
about tyres and petrol, and if he did, I knew how to fill up his tanks
for him. Be sure I went away on my top speed and ate a better lunch
than had come my way for six months or more. Who the man was, or what
he was, I didn't care a dump. I had got the job, and to-morrow I would
get up in the driver's seat of a car again. You can't wonder I was
pleased.
I slept well that night, and was round at Benny's early on the
following morning. If I had been surprised at my good luck yesterday,
surprise was no word for what I felt when the valet opened the door to
me and told me that Mr. Colmacher was in the country and wouldn't be
back for a month. Not a word had been said about this, mind you--not a
hint at it; and yet the stiff and starched gentleman could tell me the
news just as coolly as though he had said, "My master has gone across
the street to see a friend." When I asked him if there was no message
for me, he answered simply, "None."
"He didn't give no instructions about the car?"
"The car is at the yard being repaired."
"But I was engaged to drive her----"
"You will drive Mr. Colmacher when he returns."
"And my wages----?"
"Oh, those will be paid. This is a place where they know what is due
to us."
"And I am to do nothing meanwhile?"
"If you have nothing to do, by all means."
It was an odd thing to hear, to be sure, and you can well understand my
hesitation as I stood there on the landing and watched that stiff and
starched valet, who might have just come out of a tailor's shop.
Gentlemen are not usually reserved between themselves, but this fellow
beat me altogether, and I liked him but little. Such a
"don't-touch-me-or-I-shall-vanish" manner you don't come across often
even in Park Lane, and I soon saw that whatever else happened, Joseph,
the valet, as they called him, and Lal Britten, the "shuffer," were
never going to the North Pole together.
"If it's doing nothing," said I at last, "Mr. Colmacher won't have
cause to complain of his driver. Am I to call again, or will he send
for me?"
"He will send for you, unless you like to see Mr. Walter in the
meantime?"
I looked up at this. There had been no "Mr. Walter" in the business
before.
"Mr. Walter--and who may Mr. Walter be?"
"He is Mr. Colmacher's son."
"Then I will see him just as soon as you like."
He nodded his head and invited me in. Presently I found myself in a
fine bedroom on the far side of the flat, and what was my astonishment
to discover Mr. Walter himself in bed with a big cut across his
forehead and his right arm in a sling. He was a lean, pale youth, but
with as cadaverous a face as I have ever looked upon; and when he spoke
his voice appeared to come from the back of his head.
"You are the new driver my father has engaged?"
"Yes, sir, I am the same."
"I hope you understand powerful cars. Did my father tell you that ours
is a steam car?"
"He talked about a fifty-seven Daimler, sir."
"But you have had experience with steam cars----"
"How did you know that, sir?"
He smiled softly.
"We have made inquiries--naturally, we should do so."
"Then you have not been misinformed. I drove a thirty-horse White
three months last year."
"Ah, the same car that we drive. Unfortunately, I cannot help my
father just now, for I have met with an accident--in the hunting field."
I jibbed at this. Motor-men don't know much about the hunting field,
as a rule, but I wasn't such a ninny that I supposed men hunted in July.
"Hunting, did you say, sir?"
"That is, trying a horse for the hunting season. Well, you may go now.
Leave your address with Joseph. My father will send for you when he
returns, and meanwhile you are at liberty."
I thanked him and went off. Oddly enough, this fellow pleased me no
more than the valet. His smile was ugly, his scowl uglier
still--especially when I made that remark about the hunting field.
"Better have held your tongue, Lal, my boy," said I to myself; and
resolving to hold it for the future, I went to my own diggings and
heard no more of the Colmachers, father or son, for exactly twenty-one
days. The morning of the twenty-second found me at the flat again.
"Benny" Colmacher had returned, and remembered that he had paid me
three weeks' wages.
Now this was the middle of the month of August, and "Benny" certainly
was dressed for country wear. A dot-and-go-one suit of dittoes went
for best, so to speak, with his curly red hair, and got the better of
it by a long way. He had a white rose in his button-hole, and his
manner was as smooth as Vacuum B from a nice clean can. He had just
breakfasted off his usual brandy-and-soda and dry toast when I came in;
and the big cigar did sentry-go across his mouth all the time he talked
to me.
"Come in, come in, Britten," he cried pompously, when I appeared. "You
like your place, I hope--you don't find the work too hard?"
"That's so--sir--a very nice sort of place this for a delicate young
man like myself."
"Ah, but we are going to be a little busier. Has Mr. Walter shown you
the car?"
"No, sir, not yet. I hear she is a White steamer, though."
"Yes, yes; I like steam cars; they don't shake me up. When a man
weighs fifteen stun, he doesn't like to be shaken up, Britten--not good
for his digestion, eh? Well, you go down to the Bedford Mews, No. 23B,
and tell me if you can get the thing going by ten o'clock to-morrow--as
far as Watford, Britten. That's the place, Watford. I've something on
down there--something very important. Upon my soul, I don't know why I
shouldn't tell you. It's about a lady, Britten--ha, ha!--about a lady."
Well, he grinned all over his face just like the laughing gorilla at
the Zoo, and went on grinning for a matter of two minutes or more.
Such a laugh caught you whether you would or no; and while I didn't
care two-pence about his business, and less about the lady, yet here I
was laughing as loudly as he, and seemingly just as pleased.
"Is it a young lady?" I ventured to ask presently. But he stopped
laughing at that, and looked mighty serious.
"You mustn't question me, my lad," he said, a bit proudly. "I like my
servants to be in my confidence, but they must not beg it. We are
going down to Watford--that is enough for you. Get the car ready as
soon as possible, and let me know at once if there is anything the
matter with her."
I promised to do so, and went round to the mews immediately. "Benny"
seemed to me just a good-natured lovesick old fool, who had got hold of
some new girl in the country and was going off to spoon her. The car I
found to be one of the latest forty White's in tip-top trim. She
steamed at once, and when I had put a new heater in, there was nothing
more to be done to her, except to wash her down, a thing no
self-respecting mechanic will ever do if he can get another to take the
job on for him. So I hired a loafer who was hanging about the mews,
and set him to the work while I read the papers and smoked a cigarette.
He was a playful little cuss to be sure, one of those "ne'er-grow-ups"
you meet about stables, and ready enough to gossip when I gave him the
chance.
"He's a wonder, is Colmacher," he remarked as he splashed and hissed
about the wheels. "Takes his car out half a dozen times in as many
hours, and then never rides in her for three months. You would be
engaged in place of Mr. Walter, I suppose. They say he's gone to
America, though I don't rightly know whether that's true or not."
I answered him without looking up from my paper.
"Who says he's in America?"
"Why, the servants say it. Ellen the housemaid and me--but that ain't
for the newspapers. So Mr. Walter's home, is he? Well, he do walk
about, to be sure, and him not left for New York ten days ago."
"You seem to be angry about it, my boy."
"Well no, it ain't nothing to me, to be sure, though I must say as
Benny's one after my own heart. The girls he do know, and mostly after
'em when the sun's gone down. Would it be the young lady at Bristol
this time, or another? He wus took right bad down in Wiltshire larst
time I heard of 'im, but perhaps he's cured hisself drinking of the
waters. Anyway, it ain't nothing to me, for I'm off to Margate
to-morrow."
He waited for me to speak, but seeing that I was bent on reading my
paper, made no further remark until his job was done. When next I saw
him it was at eleven o'clock on the following day, just as I was
driving the car round to "Benny's" to take the old boy down to Watford
as he wished. Jumping on the step, the lad put a funny question:
"You're a good sort," he said. "Will you forward this bit of a
telegram to me from any place you chance to stop at to-night?"
"Why, what's up now?" I asked.
"Nothing much, but my old uncle won't let me go, and I want to take
Ellen to Margate for the day. This telegram says mother's ill and
wants me. Will you send it through and put in the name of the place
where you stop to-night?"
I said that I would, and sticking the sixpence inside my glove and the
form into my pocket, I thought no more about it, and drove straight
away to Benny's. The old boy was dressed fit to marry the whole Gaiety
ballet, white frock suit, white hat, and a rose as big as a full-blown
tomato in his button-hole. To the valet he gave his directions in a
voice that could have been heard half down the street. He was going to
Watford, and would return in a week.
"Mind," he cried, "I'm staying at the King's Arms, and you can send my
letters down there." Then he waved his hand to me, and we set off.
The road to Watford via Edgware is traps from end to end, and, well as
the White was going, I did not dare to let her out. It was just after
half-past eleven when we left town, and about a quarter to one when we
dropped down the hill into Watford town. Here "Benny" leant over and
spoke to me.
"Shan't lunch here," he cried, as though the idea had come to him
suddenly; "get on to St. Albans or to Hatfield if you like. The Red
Lion will do me--drive on there and don't hurry."
I made no answer, but drove quietly through the town, and so by the old
high road to St. Albans and thence to Hatfield. Truth to tell, the car
interested me far more than old Benny or his plans. She was steaming
beautifully, and I had six hundred pounds' pressure all the time.
While that was so I didn't care the turn of a nut whether old Benny
lunched at Watford or at Edinburgh, and as for his adventure with the
girl--well, you couldn't expect me to go talking about another man's
good luck. In fact, I had forgotten all about it long before we were
at Hatfield, and when we had lunched and the old chap suddenly
remembered that he would like to spend the night at Newmarket, I was
not so surprised--for this is the motorist's habit all the world over,
and there's the wonder of the motor-car, that, whether you wish to
sleep where you are or a hundred miles distant, she'll do the business
for you and make no complaint about it.
Perhaps you will say that I ought to have been surprised, ought to have
guessed that this man was up to no good and turned back to the nearest
police station. It's easy to be a prophet after the event; and between
what a man ought to do and what he does do on any given occasion, there
is often a pretty considerable margin when it comes to the facts. I
drove Benny willingly, not thinking anything at all about the matter.
When he stopped in the town of Royston and said he would take a cup of
tea with a cork to it, I thought it just the sort of thing such a man
would do. And I was ready myself for a cigarette and a stroll
round--for sitting all that time in the car makes a man's legs stiff,
and no mistake about it. But I wasn't away more than ten minutes, and
when I got back to the hotel "Benny" was already fuming at the door.
"Where have you been to?" he asked in a voice unlike his own--the voice
of a man who knows "what's what" and will see that he gets it. "Why
weren't you with the car?"
"Been to the telegraph office," said I quietly, for no bluster is going
to unship me--not much.
"Telegraph office!" and here his face went white as a sheet, "what the
devil did you go there for?"
"What people usually go for, sir--to send a telegram."
We looked each other full in the face for a moment, and I could see he
was sorry he had spoken.
"I suppose you wanted to let your friends know," he put it to me. I
said it was just that--for such was the shortest way out of it.
"Then get the car out at once and keep to the Newmarket Road. I shall
sleep at the Randolph Arms to-night."
I made no answer and we got away again. But, for all that, I thought a
lot, and all the time the White was flying along that fine bit of road,
I was asking myself why Benny turned pale when he heard I had sent a
telegram. Was this business with the girl, then, something which might
bring trouble on us both? Was he the man he represented himself to be?
Those were the questions I could not answer, and they were still in my
head when we reached the village of Whittlesford and Benny suddenly
ordered me to stop.
"This looks a likely inn," he said, pointing to a pretty little house
on the right-hand side of the road; "I think we might stop the night
here, lad. They'll give us a good bed and a good glass of whisky,
anyway, and what does a man want more? Run the car into the yard and
wait while I talk to them. You won't die if we don't get to Newmarket
to-night, I suppose?"
I said that it was all one to me, and put the car into the yard. The
inn was a beauty, and I liked the look of it. Perhaps Benny's new
manner disarmed me; he was as mild as milk just then, and as affable as
a commercial with a sample in his bag. When he appeared again he had
the landlord with him, and he told me he was going to stop.
"Get a good dinner into you, lad, and then come and talk to me," he
said, putting a great paw on my shoulder, and leering apishly. "We
mayn't go to bed to-night, after all, for, to tell you the truth, I
don't like the colour of their sheets. You wouldn't mind sitting up, I
daresay, not supposing--well, that there was a ten-pound note hanging
to it?"
I opened my eyes at this.
"A ten-pound note, sir?"
"Yes, for robbing you of your bed. Didn't you tell me you were a
wonder at night driving. Well, I want to see what stuff you're made
of."
I did not answer him, and, after talking a lot about my cleverness and
the way the car had run, he went in and had his dinner. What to make
of him or his proposal I knew no more than the dead. Certainly he had
done nothing which gave me any title to judge him, and a man with a job
to serve isn't over-ready to be nice about his masters, whatever their
doings. I came to the conclusion that he was just a dotty old boy who
had gone crazy over some girl, and that he was driving out by night to
see her. All the talk about Watford and his letters was so much
jibarree and not meant for home consumption; but, in any case, it was
no affair of mine, nor could I be held responsible for what he did or
what he left undone.
This was the wisest view to take, and it helped me out afterwards. He
made a good dinner, they told me, and drank a fine bottle of port, kept
in the cellars of the house from the old days when gentlemen drove
themselves to Newmarket, and didn't spare the liquor by the way. It
was half-past ten when I saw him again, and then he had one of the
roly-poly cigars in his mouth and the ten-pound note in his hand.
"Britten," he said quite plain, "you know why I've come down here?"
"I think so, sir."
"_Chercher les femmes_, as they say in Boolong--I'm down here to meet
the girl I'm going to marry."
"Hope you'll find her well, sir."
"Ah, that's just it. I shan't find her well if her old father can help
it. Damn him, he's nearly killed her with his oaths and swearing these
last two months. But it's going to stop, Britten, and stop to-night.
She's waiting for this car over at Fawley Hill, which isn't half a mile
from this very door."
He came a step nearer and thrust the ten-pound note under my very nose.
"It's Lord Hailsham's place--straight up the hill to the right and on
to the high road from Bishop's Stortford. There's a party for a silver
wedding, and Miss Davenport is staying there with her father and
mother. Bring her to this house and I'll give you fifty pounds.
There's ten as earnest money. She's over age and can do what she
likes--and it's no responsibility of yours, anyway."
I took the note in my hand and put a question.
"Do I drive to the front door--I'm thinking not?"
"You drive to the edge of the spinney which you'll find directly you
turn the corner. Wait there until Miss Davenport comes. Then drive
her straight here and your money is earned. I'll answer for the rest
and she shall answer for herself."
I nodded my head, and, folding up the note, I put it in my pocket. The
night was clear when I drove away from the inn, but there was some mist
in the fields and a goodish bit about the spinney they had pointed out
to me. A child could have found the road, however, for it was just the
highway to Newmarket; and when I had cruised along it a couple of
hundred yards, to the very gates of Lord Hailsham's house, I turned
about and stood off at the spinney's edge, perhaps three hundred yards
away. Then I just lighted a cigarette and waited, as I had been told
to do.
It was a funny job, upon my word. Sometimes I laughed when I thought
about it; sometimes I had a bit of a shiver down my back, the sort of
thing which comes to a man who's engaged in a rum affair, and may not
come well out of it. As for the party Lord Hailsham was giving, there
could be no doubt about that. I had seen the whole house lighted up
from attic to kitchen, and some of the lights were still glistening
between the pollards in the spinny; while the stables themselves seemed
alive with coachmen, carriages, and motor-cars. The road itself was
the only secluded spot you could have pointed out for the third of a
mile about--but that was without a living thing upon it, and nothing
but a postman's cart passed me for an hour or more.
I should have told you that I had turned the car and that she now stood
with her headlights towards home. The mists made the night very cold,
and I was glad to wrap myself up in one of the guvnor's rugs and smoke
a packet of cigarettes while I waited. From time to time I could hear
the music of fiddles, and they came with an odd echo, just as though
some merry tune of long ago chided me for being there all alone. When
they ceased I must have dropped asleep, for the next thing I knew was
that some one was busy about the car and that my head-lamps had both
gone out. Be sure I jumped up like a shot at this
|
up the canvas,
yet the picture would not be complete without them. They are notable
personages, well worthy of being separately depicted, though in the
large historical representation they play a subordinate part.
To take out one of these side figures of history, and to make it the
centre of a separate picture, grouping round it all the great events
and characters among which it moved, is the work of a biographer. And
by many it will be felt that nothing invests the general history of
any period with such a living interest as viewing it through the light
of some one human life. How was this individual soul affected by the
movement of the great forces with which it was surrounded? How did it
affect them, in its turn, wherever in its progress it came into contact
with them? This one consideration will confer on many details of
history an importance and freshness of which they seemed too trivial or
too dull to be susceptible.
II. Among these side characters in history, characters of men in
themselves belonging to the first rank, men whose names will be
renowned and honoured to the end of time, but precluded, by disposition
or circumstances, from taking the foremost place in the larger canvas
of general history, must be reckoned many of the great ecclesiastics of
the first four or five centuries of Christianity. Every one recognises
as great such names as Origen, Tertullian, Cyprian, Basil, the two
Gregories, and many more. Every one would admit that the Church owes
them a debt, but it may be safely affirmed that here the acquaintance
of many with these eminent men begins and ends. A few scraps from
their writings quoted in commentaries, one or two remarkable acts
or sayings which have been thought worthy to be handed down, a few
passages in which their lives flit across the stage of general history,
complete the knowledge of many more. Such men, indeed, as Athanasius
and Ambrose are to some extent exceptions. The magnitude of the
principles for which they contended, the energy and ability which
they displayed in the contest, were too conspicuous to be passed over
by the general historian, civil or ecclesiastical. The proverbial
expression “Athanasius contra mundum” attests of itself the pre-eminent
greatness of the man. But with other luminaries of the Church, whose
powers were perhaps equally great, but not exercised on so public a
field or on behalf of such apparently vital questions, history has not
dealt, perhaps cannot consistently with its scope deal, in any degree
commensurate with their merits. Nor does this remark apply entirely to
civil history. Ecclesiastical history also is so much occupied with
the consideration of subjects on a large scale and covering a large
space of time,—the course of controversies, the growth of doctrines,
the relations between Church and State, changes in discipline, in
liturgies, in ritual,—that the history of those who lived among these
events, and who by their ability made or moulded them, is comparatively
lost sight of. The outward operations are seen, but the springs
which set them going are concealed. How can general history, for
instance, adequately set forth the character and the work of such men
as Savonarola or Erasmus, both in their widely different ways men of
such incomparable genius and incessant activity? It does not; it only
supplies a glimpse, a sketch, which make us long for a fuller vision,
a more finished picture.[1]
III. It is designed to attempt, in the following pages, such a
supplementary chapter in ecclesiastical history. An endeavour will be
made not merely to chronicle the life and estimate the character of the
great preacher of Antioch and Constantinople, but to place him in the
centre of all the great movements, civil as well as religious, of his
time, and see what light he and they throw upon one another.
The age in which he lived was a troublous one. The spectacle of a
tempestuous sea may in itself excite our interest and inspire us with
awe, but place in the midst of it a vessel containing human life, and
how deeply is our interest intensified!
What was the general character and position of the clergy in the fourth
century? What was the attitude of the Church towards the sensuality,
selfishness, luxury, of an effete and debased civilisation on the one
hand, and the rude ferocity of young and strong barbarian races on the
other? To what extent had Christianity leavened, or had it appreciably
leavened at all, popular forms of thought and popular habits of life?
What was the existing phase of monasticism? what the ordinary form of
worship in the Catholic Church? what the established belief respecting
the sacraments and the great verities of the Christian faith? In answer
to such inquiries, and to many more, much useful information may be
extracted from the works of so prolific a writer and preacher as
Chrysostom. Being concerned also, as a preacher, with moral practice
more than with abstract theology, his homilies reflect, like the
writings of satirists, the manners of the age. The habits of private
life, the fashionable amusements, the absurdities of dress, all the
petty foibles, as well as the more serious vices of the society by
which he was surrounded, are dragged out without remorse, and made
the subjects of solemn admonition, or fierce invective, or withering
sarcasm, or ironical jest.
IV. Nor does secular history, from which not a single chapter in
ecclesiastical history can without injury be dissociated, want for
copious illustration. Not only from the memorable story of the sedition
at Antioch, and from the public events at Constantinople, in which
Chrysostom played a conspicuous part, but from many an allusion or
incidental expression scattered up and down his works, we may collect
rays of light on the social and political condition of the Empire. We
get glimpses in his pages of a large mass of the population hovering
midway between Paganism and Christianity; we detect an oppressive
system of taxation, a widely-spread venality in the administration
of public business, a general insecurity of life arising from the
almost total absence of what we understand by police regulations, a
depressed agriculture, a great slave population, a vast turbulent army
as dangerous to the peace of society as the enemies from whom it was
supposed to defend it, the presence of barbarians in the country as
servants, soldiers, or colonists, the constantly-impending danger from
other hordes ever hovering on the frontier, and, like famished wolves,
gazing with hungry eyes on the plentiful prey which lay beyond it. But
in the midst of the national corruption we see great characters stand
out; and it is remarkable that they belong, without exception, to the
two elements which alone were strong and progressive in the midst of
the general debility and decadence. All the men of commanding genius
in this era were either Christian or barbarian. A young and growing
faith, a vigorous and manly race: these were the two forces destined to
work hand in hand for the destruction of an old and the establishment
of a new order of things. The chief doctors of Christianity in the
fourth century—Augustine, Chrysostom, Ambrose—are incomparably greater
than their contemporary advocates of the old religion and philosophy,
Symmachus or Libanius; even as the Gothic Alaric and Fravitta, and the
Vandal Stilicho, were the only generals who did not disgrace the Roman
arms.
V. Some remarks on the theology of Chrysostom will be found in the
concluding chapter. The appellation of preacher,[2] by which he is
most generally known, is a true indicator of the sphere in which his
powers were greatest. It was in upholding a pure and lofty standard of
Christian morality, and in denouncing unchristian wickedness, that his
life was mainly spent, rather than, like Augustine’s, in constructing
and teaching a logical system of doctrine. The rage of his enemies,
to which he ultimately fell a victim, was not bred of the bitterness
of theological controversy, but of the natural antagonism between the
evil and the good. And it is partly on this account that neither the
remoteness of time, nor difference of circumstances, which separate
us from him, can dim the interest with which we read his story. He
fought not so much for any abstract question of theology or point
of ecclesiastical discipline, which may have lost its meaning and
importance for us, but for those grand principles of truth and justice,
Christian charity, and Christian holiness, which ought to be dear to
men equally in all ages.
VI. But there is also in the struggle of Chrysostom with the secular
power an ecclesiastical and historical interest, as well as a moral
one. We see prefigured in his deposition the fate of the Eastern Church
in the Eastern capital of the Empire. As the papacy grew securely by
the retreat from the old Rome of any secular rival, so the patriarchate
of the new Rome was constantly, increasingly depressed by the presence
of such a rival. Of all the great churchmen who flourished in the
fourth century, Athanasius, Basil, the Gregories, Ambrose, Jerome,
Augustine, and Chrysostom, the last three alone survived into the
fifth century. But the glory of the Western Church was then only in
its infancy; the glory of the Eastern culminated in Chrysostom. From
his time the patriarchs of Constantinople fell more and more into
the servile position of court functionaries. The working out of that
grand idea, a visible organised Catholic Church, uniform in doctrine
and discipline, an idea which grew more and more as the political
disintegration of the Empire increased, was to be accomplished by the
more commanding, law-giving spirit of the West. Intrepid in spirit,
inflexible of purpose, though Chrysostom was, he could not subdue,
he could only provoke to more violent opposition, the powers with
which he was brought into collision. Ineffectual was his contest
with ecclesiastical corruption and secular tyranny, as compared
with a similar contest waged by his Western contemporary, Ambrose;
ineffectual also were the efforts, after his time, of the Church which
he represented to assert the full dignity of its position.
VII. Chrysostom, and the contemporary fathers of the Eastern Church,
naturally seem very remote from us; but, in fact, they are nearer to
us in their modes of thought than many who in point of time are less
distant. They were brought up in the study of that Greek literature
with which we are familiar. Philosophy had not stiffened into
scholasticism. The ethics of Chrysostom are substantially the same
with the ethics of Butler. So, again, Eastern fathers of the fourth
century are far more nearly allied to us in theology than writers of
a few centuries later. If we are to look to “the rock” whence our
Anglican liturgy “was hewn,” and “to the hole of the pit” whence
Anglican reformed theology “was digged,” we must turn our eyes, above
all other directions, to the Eastern Church and the Eastern fathers.
It was observed by Mr. Alexander Knox,[3] that the earlier days of
the Greek Church seem resplendent with a glow of simple, fervent
piety, such as in a Church, as a whole, has never since been seen; and
that this character is strikingly in harmony with our own liturgy, so
overflowing with sublime aspirations, so Catholic, not bearing the
impress of any one system of theology, but containing what is best in
all. We may detect in Chrysostom the germ of medieval corruptions,
such as the invocation of saints, the adoration of relics, and a
sensuous conception of the change effected in the holy elements in the
Eucharist; but these are the raw material of error, not yet wrought
into definite shape. The Bishop of Rome is recognised, as will be seen
from Chrysostom’s correspondence with Innocent, as a great potentate,
whose intercessions are to be solicited in time of trouble and
difficulty, and to whose judgment much deference is to be paid, but by
no means as a supreme ruler in Christendom.
Thus, the tone of Chrysostom’s language is far more akin to that of
our own Church than of the medieval or present Church of Rome. In his
habit of referring to Holy Scripture as the ultimate source and basis
of all true doctrine, “so that whatsoever is not read therein, nor
may be proved thereby, is not to be required of any man as an article
of faith;” in his careful endeavour to ascertain the real meaning of
Scripture, not seeking for fanciful or mystical interpretations, or
supporting preconceived theories, but patiently labouring, with a
mixture of candour, reverence, and common sense, to ascertain the exact
literal sense of each passage;—in these points, no less than in his
theology, he bears an affinity to the best minds of our own reformed
Church, and fairly represents that faith of the Catholic Church before
the disruption of East and West in which Bishop Ken desired to die;
while his fervent piety, and his apostolic zeal as a preacher of
righteousness, must command the admiration of all earnest Christians,
to whatever country, age, or Church, they may belong.
CHAPTER II.
FROM HIS BIRTH TO HIS APPOINTMENT TO THE OFFICE OF
READER, A.D. 345 OR A.D. 347 TO A.D. 370.
It has been well remarked by Sir Henry Savile, in the preface to his
noble edition of Chrysostom’s works, published in 1612, that, as with
great rivers, so often with great men, the middle and the close of
their career are dignified and distinguished, but the primary source
and early progress of the stream are difficult to ascertain and trace.
No one, he says, has been able to fix the exact date, the year, and the
consulship of Chrysostom’s birth. This is true; but at the same time
his birth, parentage, and education are not involved in such obscurity
as surrounds the earliest years of some other great luminaries of the
Eastern Church; his own friend, for instance, Theodore, Bishop of
Mopsuestia, and yet more notably, the great Athanasius.
There is little doubt that his birth occurred not later than the year
A.D. 347, and not earlier than the year A.D. 345; and there is no doubt
that Antioch in Syria was the place of his birth, that his mother’s
name was Anthusa, his father’s Secundus, and that both were well born.
His mother was, if not actually baptized, very favourably inclined
to Christianity,[4] and, indeed, a woman of no ordinary piety. The
father had attained the rank of “magister militum” in the Imperial
army of Syria, and therefore enjoyed the title of “illustris.” He
died when his son John was an infant, leaving a young widow, about
twenty years of age, in comfortable circumstances, but harassed by the
difficulties and anxieties of her unprotected condition as mistress
of a household in days when servants were slaves, and life in large
cities altogether unguarded by such securities as are familiar to us.
Greatly did she dread the responsibility of bringing up a son in one of
the most turbulent and dissolute capitals of the Empire. Nothing, she
afterwards[5] declared to him, could have enabled her to pass through
such a furnace of trial but a consoling sense of divine support, and
the delight of contemplating the image of her husband as reproduced
in his son. How long a sister older than himself may have lived we
do not know; but the conversation between him and his mother, when
he was meditating a retreat into a monastery, seems to imply that he
was the only surviving child. All her love, all her care, all her
means and energies, were concentrated on the boy destined to become so
great a man, and exhibiting even in childhood no common ability and
aptitude for learning. But her chief anxiety was to train him in pious
habits, and to preserve him uncontaminated from the pollutions of the
vicious city in which they resided. She was to him what Monica was to
Augustine, and Nonna to Gregory Nazianzen.
The great influence, indeed, of women upon the Christianity of
domestic life in that age is not a little remarkable. The Christians
were not such a pure and single-minded community as they had been.
The refining fires of persecution which burnt up the chaff of
hypocrisy or indifference were now extinguished; Christianity had a
recognised position; her bishops were in kings’ courts. The natural
consequences inevitably followed this attainment of security; there
were more Christians, but not more who were zealous; there were many
who hung very loosely to the Church—many who fluctuated between
the Church and Paganism. In the great Eastern cities of the Empire,
especially Alexandria, Antioch, Constantinople, the mass of the
so-called Christian population was largely infected by the dominant
vices—inordinate luxury, sensuality, selfish avarice, and display.
Christianity was in part paganised long before it had made any
appreciable progress towards the destruction of Paganism. But the
sincere and ardent piety of many amongst the women kept alive in many
a home the flame of Christian faith which would otherwise have been
smothered. The Emperor Julian imagined that his efforts to resuscitate
Paganism would have been successful in Antioch but for the strenuous
opposition of the Christian women. He complains “that they were
permitted by their husbands to take anything out of the house to bestow
it upon the Galilæans, or to give away to the poor, while they would
not expend the smallest trifle upon the worship of the gods.”[6] The
efforts also of the Governor Alexander, who was left in Antioch by
the Emperor to carry forward his designs of Pagan reformation, were
principally baffled through this female influence. He found that the
men would often consent to attend the temples and sacrifices, but
afterwards generally repented and retracted their adherence. This
relapse Libanius the sophist, in a letter[7] to the Governor, ascribes
to the home influence of the women. “When the men are out of doors,” he
says, “they obey you who give them the best advice, and they approach
the altars; but when they get home, their minds undergo a change; they
are wrought upon by the tears and entreaties of their wives, and they
again withdraw from the altars of the gods.”
Anthusa did not marry again; very possibly she was deterred from
contracting a second marriage by religious scruples which Chrysostom
himself would certainly have approved.[8] The Pagans themselves
admired those women who dedicated themselves to a single life, or
abstained from marrying again. Chrysostom himself informs us that when
he began to attend the lectures of Libanius, his master inquired who
and what his parents were; and on being told that he was the son of a
widow who at the age of forty had lost her husband twenty years, he
exclaimed in a tone of mingled jealousy and admiration: “Heavens! what
women these Christians have!”[9]
What instruction he received in early boyhood, beside his mother’s
careful moral and religious training; whether he was sent, a common
custom among Christian parents in that age,[10] to be taught by the
monks in one of the neighbouring monasteries, where he may have
imbibed an early taste for monastic retirement, we know not. He was
designed, however, not for the clerical but for the legal profession,
and at the age of twenty he began to attend the lectures of one of
the first sophists of the day, capable of giving him that secular
training and learning which would best enable him to cope with men of
the world. Libanius had achieved a reputation as a teacher of general
literature, rhetoric, and philosophy, and as an able and eloquent
defender of Paganism, not only in his native city Antioch, but in
the Empire at large. He was the friend and correspondent of Julian,
and on amicable terms with the Emperors Valens and Theodosius. He
had now returned to Antioch after lengthened residence in Athens
(where the chair of rhetoric had been offered to him, but declined),
in Nicomedia, and in Constantinople.[11] In attending daily lectures
at his school, the young Chrysostom became conversant with the best
classical Greek authors, both poets and philosophers. Of their teaching
he in later life retained little admiration,[12] and to the perusal
of their writings he probably seldom or never recurred for profit
or recreation, but his retentive memory enabled him to the last to
point and adorn his arguments with quotations from Homer, Plato, and
the Tragedians. In the school of Libanius also he began to practise
those nascent powers of eloquence which were destined to win for him
so mighty a fame, as well as the appellation of Chrysostomos, or the
Golden Mouth, by which, rather than by his proper name of John, he will
be known to the end of time.[13] Libanius, in a letter to Chrysostom,
praises highly a speech composed by him in honour of the Emperors,
and says they were happy in having so excellent a panegyrist.[14] The
Pagan sophist helped to forge the weapons which were afterwards to be
skilfully employed against the cause to which he was devoted. When he
was on his deathbed, he was asked by his friends who was in his opinion
capable of succeeding him. “It would have been John,” he replied, “had
not the Christians stolen him from us.”[15] But it did not immediately
appear that the learned advocate of Paganism was nourishing a traitor;
for Chrysostom had not yet been baptized, and began to seek an opening
for his powers in secular fields of activity.[16] He commenced practice
as a lawyer; some of his speeches gained great admiration, and were
highly commended by his old master Libanius. A brilliant career of
worldly ambition was open to him. The profession of the law was at that
time the great avenue to civil distinction. The amount of litigation
was enormous. One hundred and fifty advocates were required for the
court of the Prætorian Prefect of the East alone. The display of
talent in the law-courts frequently obtained for a man the government
of a province, whence the road was open to those higher dignities of
vice-prefect, prefect, patrician, consul, which were honoured by the
title of “illustrious.”[17]
But the pure and upright disposition of the youthful advocate recoiled
from the licentiousness which corrupted society; from the avarice,
fraud, and artifice which marked the transactions of men of business;
from the chicanery and rapacity that sullied the profession which he
had entered.[18] He was accustomed to say later in life that “the
Bible was the fountain for watering the soul.” If he had drunk of
the classical fountains in the school of Libanius, he had imbibed
draughts yet deeper of the spiritual well-spring in quiet study of Holy
Scripture at home. And like many another in that degraded age, his
whole soul revolted from the glaring contrast presented by the ordinary
life of the world around him to that standard of holiness which was
held up in the Gospels.
He had formed also an intimate friendship with a young man, his equal
in station and age, by whose influence he was diverted more and more
from secular life, and eventually induced altogether to abandon it.
This was Basil, who will come before us in the celebrated work on
the priesthood. He must not be confounded with the great Basil,[19]
Bishop of Cæsarea, in Cappadocia, who was some fifteen years older
than Chrysostom, having been born in A.D. 329, nor with Basil, Bishop
of Seleucia, who was present at the Council of Chalcedon in A.D. 451,
and must therefore have been considerably younger. Perhaps he may be
identified with a Basil, Bishop of Raphanea in Syria, not far from
Antioch, who attended the Council of Constantinople in A.D. 381.
Chrysostom has described his friendship with Basil in affecting
language:[20] “I had many genuine and true friends, men who understood
and strictly observed the laws of friendship; but one there was out of
the many who exceeded them all in attachment to me, and strove to leave
them all behind in the race, even as much as they themselves surpassed
ordinary acquaintances. He was one of those who accompanied me at all
times; we engaged in the same studies, and were instructed by the same
teachers; in our zeal and interest for the subjects on which we worked,
we were one. As we went to our lectures or returned from them, we were
accustomed to take counsel together on the line of life it would be
best to adopt; and here, too, we appeared to be unanimous.”
Basil early determined this question for himself in favour of
monasticism; he decided, as Chrysostom expresses it, to follow the
“true philosophy.” This occasioned the first interruption to their
intercourse. Chrysostom, soon after the age of twenty, had embarked
on a secular career, and could not immediately make up his mind to
tread in the footsteps of his friend. “The balance,” he says, “was no
longer even;” the scale of Basil mounted, while that of Chrysostom was
depressed by the weight of earthly interests and desires.[21] But the
decisive act of Basil made a deep impression on his mind; separation
from his friend only increased his attachment to him, and his aversion
from life in the world. He began to withdraw more from ordinary
occupations and pleasures, and to spend more of his time in the study
of Holy Scripture. He formed acquaintance with Meletius, the deeply
respected Catholic Bishop of Antioch, and after three years, the usual
period of probation for catechumens, was baptized by him.
A natural question arises: Why was he not baptized before, since his
mother was a Christian, and there is abundant evidence that infant
baptism was and had been the ordinary practice of the Church?[22] In
attempting a solution of the difficulty, it will be proper to mention
first certain reasons for delaying baptism which were prevalent in that
age, and which may partially have influenced the mind of Chrysostom’s
mother or himself. It may sound paradoxical to say that an exaggerated
estimation of the import and effect of baptism contributed in two ways
to its delay. But such appears to have been the case. It was regarded
by many as the most complete and final purgation of past sin, and
the most solemn pledge of a new and purified life for the future. To
sin, therefore, before baptism was comparatively harmless, if in the
waters of baptism the guilty stains could be washed away; but sin after
the reception of that holy sacrament was almost, if not altogether,
unpardonable—at least fraught with the most tremendous peril. Hence
some would delay baptism, as many now delay repentance, from a secret
or conscious reluctance to take a decisive step, and renounce the
pleasures of sin; and under the comfortable persuasion that some
day, by submitting to baptism, they would free themselves from the
responsibilities of their past life. Others, again, were deterred from
binding themselves under so solemn a covenant by a distrust of their
ability to fulfil their vows, and a timorous dread of the eternal
consequences if they failed. Against these misconceptions of the true
nature and proper use of the sacrament, the great Basil, the two
Gregories, and Chrysostom himself contend[23] with a vehemence and
indignation which proves them to have been common. Many parents thought
they would allow the fitful and unstable season of youth to pass before
they irrevocably bound their children under the most solemn engagements
of their Christian calling. The children, when they grew up, inherited
their scruples, and so the sacrament was indefinitely deferred.
It is not impossible that such feelings may have influenced
Chrysostom’s mother and himself; but considering the natural and
healthy character of his piety, which seems to have grown by a gentle
and unintermitting progress from his childhood, they do not seem very
probable in his case. A more cogent cause for the delay may perhaps be
found in the distracted state of the Church in Antioch, which lasted,
with increasing complications, from A.D. 330, or fifteen years prior to
Chrysostom’s birth, up to the time of his baptism by Meletius, when a
brighter day was beginning to dawn.
The vicissitudes of the Church in Antioch during that period form
a curious, though far from pleasing, picture of the inextricable
difficulties, the deplorable schisms, into which the Church at large
was plunged by the Arian controversy. Two years after the Council of
Nice, A.D. 327, the Arians, through the assistance of Constantia,
the Emperor’s sister, won the favour of Constantine. He lost no
time during this season of prosperity in procuring the deposition
of Catholic bishops. Eminent among these was Eustathius, Bishop of
Antioch. He was ejected by a synod held in his own city on false
charges of Sabellianism and adultery.[24] An Arian Bishop, Euphronius,
was appointed, but the Catholic congregation indignantly withdrew to
hold their services in another quarter of the town, on the opposite
side of the Orontes.[25] The see remained for some time entirely in
the hands of the Arians. When the Council of Sardica met in A.D. 342,
and the Arian faction seceded from it to hold a Council of their own
in Philippopolis, Stephen, Bishop of Antioch, was their president.
He was deposed in A.D. 349 by the Emperor Constantius, having been
detected as an accomplice in an infamous plot against some envoys
from the Western Church.[26] But “uno avulso non deficit alter;” he
was succeeded by another Arian, the eunuch Leontius.[27] He tried
to conciliate the Catholics by an artful and equivocating policy,
of which his manner of chanting the doxology was an instance. The
Arian form of it was “Glory be to the Father BY the Son _in_ the Holy
Ghost;” this the bishop was accustomed to slur in such an indistinct
voice that the prepositions could not be clearly if at all heard,
while he joined loudly in the second part of the hymn where all were
agreed.[28] He died towards the close of A.D. 357, when the see was
fraudulently seized by Eudoxius, Bishop of Germanicia. He favoured the
extreme Arians so openly that the Semi-Arians appealed to the Emperor
Constantius to summon a General Council. Their request was granted; but
the Arians, fearing that the Catholics and Semi-Arians would coalesce
to overwhelm them, artfully suggested that Rimini, the place proposed
for the Council, was too distant for the Eastern prelates, and that
the Assembly should be divided, part meeting at Rimini, and part at
Nice.[29] Their suggestion was accepted, and the result is well known.
Partly by arguments, partly by artifices and delays which wore out the
strength and patience of the members, the Arians completely carried the
day; the creed of Rimini was ordered by the Emperor to be everywhere
signed, and in the words of Jerome, “the world groaned and found itself
Arian.”[30] An Arian synod sat at Constantinople. Macedonius, the
archbishop, being considered too moderate, was deposed, and Eudoxius,
the usurper of Antioch, was elevated to the see in his stead;[31] and
Meletius, Bishop of Sebaste, in Armenia, was translated to the vacant
see of Antioch, A.D. 361. But in him the Arians had mistaken their man.
He was one of those who attended more to the practical moral teaching
than to the abstract theology of Christianity; and, being not perhaps
very precise in his language on doctrinal points, he had been reckoned
an Arian.[32] After his elevation to the see of Antioch, he confined
himself in his discourses to those practical topics on which all could
agree. But this was not allowed to last long. The Emperor Constantius
paid a visit to Antioch soon after the appointment of Meletius, and he
was instigated by the Arians to put the bishop to a crucial test. He
was commanded to preach on Proverbs viii. 22: “The Lord _possessed_
me” (Septuagint ἔκτισε, that was the fatal word) “in the beginning,”
etc. The interpretation put on the word “formed” ἔκτισε would reveal
the man. Two other bishops discoursed first upon the same text: George
of Laodicea, Acacius of Cæsarea. The first construed the passage in a
purely Arian sense: the Word was a κτίσμα, “a created being,” though
the first in time and rank; the second preacher took a more moderate
line. Then came the turn of Meletius; short-hand writers took down
every word as it fell. Meletius was a mild and temperate man, but he
had his convictions, and he was no coward. To the horror of the Arians
(the secret joy, perhaps, of those who disliked him) he entirely
dissented from the Arian interpretation. The people loudly applauded
his sermon, and called aloud for some brief and compendious statement
of his doctrine. Meletius replied by a symbolical action: he held
up three fingers, and then closing two of them, he said: “Our minds
conceive of three, but we speak as to one.”[33] This was conclusive;
the objectionable prelate was banished to Melitene, his native place
in Armenia, thirty days after he had entered Antioch. Euzoius, who had
been an intimate friend and constant associate of Arius himself, was
put into the see. The Church of Antioch now split into three parties:
the old and rigid orthodox set, who, ever since the deposition of
Eustathius in A.D. 327, had adhered to his doctrine, and were called
after his name; the moderate Catholics, who regarded Meletius as their
bishop; and the Arians under Euzoius. The synod which had deposed him
published a thoroughly Arian creed, which declared the Son to have been
created out of nothing, and to be unlike the Father both in substance
and will.[34]
This first banishment of Meletius, which occurred in A.D. 361, did
not last long. Julian, who became Emperor the same year, recalled all
the prelates who had been exiled in the two preceding reigns; partly,
perhaps, from a really liberal feeling, partly from a willingness to
foment the internal dissensions of the Church by placing the rival
bishops in close antagonism. Athanasius returned to Alexandria amidst
great ovations.[35] One of the questions which occupied the attention
of a synod convened by him was the schism of Antioch. Eusebius, Bishop
of Vercelli, a staunch Italian friend of Athanasius, was despatched
to Antioch in order to heal the division; but he had been unhappily
anticipated by another Western prelate, Lucifer of Cagliari, in
Sardinia, a brave defender of orthodoxy, for which with Eusebius he had
suffered exile, but a most unskilful peacemaker. He only complicated
the existing confusion by consecrating as bishop a priest of the
old Eustathian party, named Paulinus, instead of strengthening the
hands of Meletius.[36] The unhappy Church at Antioch, where the whole
Christian community amounted to not more than 100,000 souls,[37] was
thus torn to tatters. There were now three bishops: the Arian Euzoius,
Meletius, generally acknowledged by the Eastern Church, and Paulinus
by the Western. And, as if three rival heads were not sufficient, the
Apollinarians soon afterwards added a fourth. But the mild, prudent
|
struck with its simplicity,
and have wondered that men could go through with its details every day
for years without disgust. If the drill-master permit carelessness,
then, authority alone can force the men through the evolutions; but if
he insist on the greatest precision, they return to their task every
morning, for twenty years, with fresh and increasing interest.
What precision, permit me to ask, is possible in "putting up" a heavy
dumb-bell? But in the new dumb-bell exercises there is opportunity
and necessity for all the accuracy and skill which are found in the
most elaborate military drills.
I have had experience in boxing and fencing, and I say with
confidence, that in neither nor both is there such a field for fine
posturing, wide, graceful action, and studied accuracy, as is to be
found in the new series of dumb-bell exercises.
But, it is said, if you use dumb-bells weighing only two pounds, you
must work an hour to obtain the exercise which the heavy ones would
furnish in five minutes. I need not inform those who have practised
the new series with the light dumb-bells that this objection is made
in ignorance. If you simply "put up" the light implement, it is true;
but if you use it as in the new system, it is not true. On the
contrary, in less than five minutes, legs, hips, back, arms,
shoulders, neck, lungs, and heart will each and all make the most
emphatic remonstrance against even a quarter of an hour's practice of
such feats.
At this point it may be urged that those exercises which quicken the
action of the thoracic viscera, to any considerable degree, are simply
exhaustive. This is another blunder of the "big-muscle" men. They seem
to think you can determine every man's constitution and health by the
tape-line; and that all exercises whose results are not determinable
by measurement are worthless.
I need scarcely say, there are certain conditions of brain, muscle,
and every other tissue, far more important than size; but what I
desire to urge more particularly in this connection is the importance,
the great physiological advantages, of just those exercises in which
the lungs and heart are brought into active play. These organs are no
exceptions to the law that exercise is the principal condition of
development. Their vigorous training adds more to the stock of
vitality than that of other organs. A man may stand still and lift
kegs of nails and heavy dumb-bells until his shoulders and arms are
Samsonian, it will contribute far less to his health and longevity
than a daily run of a mile or two.
Speaking in a general way, those exercises in which the lungs and
heart are made to go at a vigorous pace are to be ranked among the
most useful. The "double-quick" of the soldier contributes more in
five minutes to his digestion and endurance than the ordinary drill in
two hours.
I have said an elastic tone of the nervous system is the physiological
purpose of all physical training. If one may be allowed such an
analysis, I would add that we exercise our muscles to invigorate the
thoracic and abdominal viscera. These in their turn support and
invigorate the nervous system. All exercises which operate more
directly upon these internal organs--as, for example, laughing, deep
breathing, and running--contribute most effectively to the stamina of
the brain and nerves. It is only the popular mania for monstrous arms
and shoulders that could have misled the intelligent gymnast on this
point.
But finally, it is said, you certainly cannot deny that rapid motions
with great sweep exhaust more than slow motions through limited
spaces. A great lifter said to me the other day,--
"Do you pretend to deny that a locomotive with a light train, flying
at the rate of forty miles an hour, consumes more fuel than one with a
heavy train, moving at the rate of five miles?"
I did not attempt to deny it.
"Well, then," he added, with an air of triumph, "what have you to say
now about these great sweeping feats with your light dumb-bells, as
compared with the slow putting up of heavy ones?"
I replied by asking him another question.
"Do you pretend to deny, that, when you drive your horse ten miles
within an hour, before a light carriage, he is more exhausted than by
drawing a load two miles an hour?"
"That's my doctrine exactly," he said.
Then I asked,--
"Why don't you always drive two miles an hour?"
"But my patients would all die," replied my friend.
I did not say aloud what was passing in my mind,--that the danger to
his patients might be less than he imagined; but I suggested, that
most men, as well as most horses, had duties in this life which
involved the necessity of rapid and vigorous motions,--and that, were
this slow movement generally adopted, every phase of human life would
be stripped of progress, success, and glory.
As our artificial training is designed to fit us for the more
successful performance of the duties of life, I suggest that the
training should be, in character, somewhat assimilated to those
duties. If you would train a horse for the carriage, you would not
prepare him for this work by driving at a slow pace before a heavy
load. If you did, the first fast drive would go hard with him. Just so
with a man. If he is to lift hogsheads of sugar, or kegs of nails, as
a business, he may be trained by heavy-lifting; but if his business
requires the average activity and free motions of human occupations,
then, upon the basis of his heavy, slow training, he will find himself
in actual life in the condition of the dray-horse who is pushed before
the light carriage at a high speed.
Perhaps it is not improper to add that all this talk about expenditure
of vitality is full of sophistry. Lecturers and writers speak of our
stock of vitality as if it were a vault of gold, upon which you cannot
draw without lessening the quantity. Whereas, it is rather like the
mind or heart, enlarging by action, gaining by expenditure.
When Daniel Boone was living alone in Kentucky, his intellectual
exercises were doubtless of the quiet, slow, heavy character. Other
white men joined him. Under the social stimulus, his thinking became
more sprightly. Suppose that in time he had come to write vigorously,
and to speak in the most eloquent, brilliant manner, does any one
imagine that he would have lost in mental vigor by the process? Would
not the brain, which had only slow exercise in his isolated life,
become bold, brilliant, and dashing, by bold, brilliant, and dashing
efforts?
A farm-boy has slow, heavy muscles. He has been accustomed to heavy
exercises. He is transferred to the circus, and performs, after a few
years' training, a hundred beautiful, splendid feats. He at length
reaches the matchless Zampillacrostation of William Hanlon. Does any
one think that his body has lost power in this brilliant education?
Is it true, either in intellectual or physical training, that great
exertions, under proper conditions and limitations, exhaust the powers
of life? On the contrary, is it not true that we find in vigorous,
bold, dashing, brilliant efforts the only source of vigorous, bold,
dashing, and brilliant powers?
In this discussion I have not considered the treatment of
invalids. The principles presented are applicable to the training of
children and adults of average vitality.
I will rest upon the general statement, that all persons, of both
sexes, and of every age, who are possessed of average vitality,
should, in the department of physical education, employ light
apparatus, and execute a great variety of feats which require skill,
accuracy, courage, presence of mind, quickness of eye and hand,--in
brief, which demand a vigorous and complete exercise of all the powers
and faculties with which the Creator has endowed us; while deformed
and diseased persons should be treated in consonance with the
philosophy of the _Swedish Movement-Cure_, in which the movements
are slow and limited.
It is but justice to the following series of exercises with dumb-bells
to state that not only are they, with two or three exceptions, the
writer's own invention, but the wisdom of the precise arrangement
given, as well as the balance of exercise in all the muscles of the
body and limbs, has been well proved by an extensive use during
several years.
By way of illustrating the new system of dumb-bell exercises, I
subjoin a few cuts. The entire series contains more than fifty
exercises.
The pupil, assuming these five positions, in the order presented,
twists the arms. In each twisting, the ends of the dumb-bells should,
if possible, be exactly reversed. Great precision will sustain the
interest through a thousand repetitions of this or any other
exercise. The object in these twisting exercises is to break up all
rigidity of the muscles and ligaments about the shoulder-joint. To
remove this should be the primary object in gymnastic training. No one
can have examined the muscles of the upper half of the body without
being struck with the fact that nearly all of them diverge from the
shoulder like a fan. Exercise of the muscles of the upper part of the
back and chest is dependent upon the shoulder. It is the centre from
which their motions are derived. As every one not in full training has
inflexibility of the parts about the shoulder-joint, this should be
the first object of attack. These twistings are well calculated to
effect the desired result. While practising them, the position should
be a good one,--head, shoulders, and hips drawn far back.
In our attempts to correct stooping shoulders, one good series of
exercises is found in thrusting the dumb-bells directly upwards. While
performing this the positions must be varied. A few illustrations are
offered.
As effective means by which to call into vigorous play neck,
shoulders, back, hips, arms, and legs, I submit the following
exercises.
THE GYMNASTIC CROWN.
Bearing burdens on the head results in an erect spine and
well-balanced gait. Observing persons, who have visited Switzerland,
Italy, or the Gulf States, have noticed a thousand verifications of
this physiological law.
Cognizant of the value of this feature of gymnastic training, I have
employed, within the last twelve years, various sorts of weights, but
have recently invented an iron crown, which I think completely
satisfactory. I have it made to weigh from five to thirty pounds. It
is so padded within that it rests pleasantly on the head, and yet so
arranged that it requires skill to balance it.
The skull-cap, which is fitted to the top of the head, must have an
opening of two inches in diameter at the crown, so that that part of
the head shall receive no pressure. If this be neglected, many persons
will suffer headache. The skull-cap should be made of strong cotton,
and supported with a sliding cord about the centre. With such an
arrangement, a feeble girl can easily carry a crown, weighing ten or
fifteen pounds, sufficiently long, morning and evening, to secure an
erect spine in a few months.
The crown which I employ is so constructed as to admit within itself
two others, whereby it may be made to weigh nine, eighteen, or
twenty-seven pounds, at the pleasure of the wearer. This is a
profitable arrangement, as in the first use nine pounds might be as
heavy as could be well borne, while twenty-seven pounds could be as
easily borne after a few weeks.
The crown may be used at home. It has been introduced into schools
with excellent results.
Instead of this iron crown, a simple board, with an oblong rim on one
side so padded with hair that the crown of the head entirely escapes
pressure, may prove a very good substitute. The upholsterer should so
fill the pad that the wearer will have difficulty in balancing it. It
may be loaded with bags of beans.
RULES FOR WEARING THE CROWN OR OTHER WEIGHT ON THE HEAD.
Wear it five to fifteen minutes morning and evening. Hold the body
erect, hips and shoulders thrown far back, and the crown rather on the
front of the head.
Walk up and down stairs, keeping the body very erect. While walking
through the hall or parlors, first turn the toes inward as far as
possible; second, outward; third, walk on the tips of the toes;
fourth, on the heels; fifth, on the right heel and left toe; sixth, on
the left heel and right toe; seventh, walk without bending the knees;
eighth, bend the knees, so that you are nearly sitting on the heels
while walking; ninth, walk with the right leg bent at the knee, rising
at each step on the straight left leg; tenth, walk with the left leg
bent, rising at each step on the straight right leg.
With these ten different modes of walking, the various muscles of the
back will receive the most invigorating exercise.
Wearing the crown is the most valuable of all exercises for young
people. If perseveringly practised, it would make them quite erect,
give them a noble carriage of the head, and save them from those
maladies of the chest which so frequently take their rise in drooping
shoulders.
EXERCISES WITH RINGS.
After the exercises with the crown, those with the new gymnastic ring
are the best ever devised. Physiologists and gymnasts have everywhere
bestowed upon them the most unqualified commendation. Indeed, it is
difficult to conceive any other series so complete in a physiological
point of view, and so happily adapted to family, school, and general
use.
If a man were as strong as Samson, he would find in the use of these
rings, with another man of equal muscle, the fullest opportunity to
exert his utmost strength; while the frailest child, engaged with one
of equal strength, would never be injured.
There is not a muscle in the entire body which may not be brought into
direct play through the medium of the rings. And if one particular
muscle or set of muscles is especially deficient or weak, the exercise
may be concentrated upon that muscle or set of muscles.
Wherever these rings are introduced, they will obtain favor and awaken
enthusiasm.
The rings are made of three pieces of wood, glued together with the
grain running in opposite directions. They are round, six inches in
diameter with body one inch thick, and finished with a hard, smooth
polish.
The first series with the rings consists of a number of twisting
exercises with the arms. Not only are these valuable in producing
freedom about the shoulder-joint, which, as has been explained, is a
great desideratum, but twisting motions of the limbs contribute more
to a rounded, symmetrical development than any other exercises. If the
flexors and extensors are exercised in simple, direct lines, the
muscular outlines will be too marked.
In twisting with the rings, the arms may be drawn into twenty
positions, thus producing an almost infinite variety of action in the
arm and shoulder.
Two of the positions assumed in this series are shown in the cuts.
It is our policy in these exercises to pull with a force of from five
to fifty pounds, and thus add indefinitely to the effectiveness of the
movements.
To illustrate a few of the many hundred exercises possible with rings,
the subjoined cuts are introduced.
In this exercise, the rings are made to touch the floor, as shown, in
alternation with the highest point they can be made to reach, all
without bending the knees or elbows.
The hands are thrust upward, outward, and downward with force.
The hands are thrust forward and drawn backward in alternation as far
as the performers can reach.
It will be understood that in none of these exercises are the
performers to maintain the illustrated positions for a single
moment. As in dancing, there is constant motion and change, while the
music secures concert. When, by marks on the floor, the performers are
kept in linear rank and file, the scene is most exhilarating to
participants and spectators.
The above are specimens of the many _charges_ with the
rings. Shoulders, arms, back, and legs receive an incomparable
training. In constant alternation with the charges, the pupils rise to
the upright position; and when the company move simultaneously to the
music, few scenes are so brilliant.
_In most exercises there must be some resistance. How much better
that this should be another human being, rather than a pole, ladder,
or bar! It is social, and constantly changing._
EXERCISES WITH WANDS.
A straight, smooth stick, four feet long, (three feet for children,)
is known in the gymnasium as a _wand_. It is employed to
cultivate flexibility, and is useful to persons of all ages and
degrees of strength.
Of this series there are sixty-eight exercises in the new system, but
I have space only for a few illustrations.
EXERCISES WITH BEAN-BAGS.
The use of small bags filled with beans, for gymnastic exercise, was
suggested to my mind some years since, while attempting to devise a
series of games with large rubber-balls. Throwing and catching objects
in certain ways, requiring skill and presence of mind, not only
affords good exercise of the muscles of the arms and upper half of the
body, but cultivates a quickness of eye and coolness of nerve very
desirable. Appreciating this, I employed large rubber-balls, but was
constantly annoyed at the irregularities resulting from the difficulty
of catching them. When the balls were but partially inflated, it was
observed that the hand could better seize them. This at length
suggested the bean-bags. Six years' use of these bags has resulted in
the adoption of those weighing from two to five pounds, as the best
for young people. The bags should be very strong, and filled
three-quarters full with clean beans. The beans must be frequently
removed and the bags washed, so that the hands and dress may not be
soiled, nor the lungs troubled with dust.
Forty games have been devised. If managers of schools are unwilling to
_study_ these games, and organize their practice, it is hoped
they will reject them altogether. If well managed, a school of young
ladies will use the bags half an hour every day for years, and their
interest keep pace with their skill; but mismanaged, as they generally
have been, it is a marvel, if the interest continues through a single
quarter.
The following cuts may serve to illustrate some of the
bag-exercises. It will be observed that the players appear to be
looking and throwing somewhat upward. Most of the exercises
illustrated are performed by couples,--the bags being thrown to and
fro. It has been found advantageous, where it is convenient, to
suspend a series of hoops between the players, and require them to
throw the bags through these hoops, which, being elevated several
feet, compel the players to assume the positions seen in the figures.
With the bean-bags there are numberless possible games, requiring eye
and hand so quick, nerves so cool, skill and endurance so great, that
the most accomplished has ever before him difficulties to be
surmounted.
In a country where pulmonary maladies figure so largely in the bills
of mortality, a complete system of physical training must embrace
special means for the development of the respiratory apparatus. The
new system is particularly full and satisfactory in this
department. Its spirometers and other kindred agencies leave nothing
to be desired.
Physiologists and teachers believe that the new system of gymnastics
is destined to establish a new era in physical education. It is
ardently hoped that events may justify their confidence.
MR. AXTELL.
PART I.
I cannot tell who built it. It is a queer piece of architecture, a
fragment, that has been thrown off in the revolutions of the wheel
mechanical, this tower of mine. It doesn't seem to belong to the
parsonage. It isn't a part of the church now, if ever it has been. No
one comes to service in it, and the only voiced worshipper who sends
up little winding eddies through its else currentless air is I.
My sister said "I will" one day, (naughty words for little children,)
and so it came to pass that she paid the penalty by coming to live in
the parsonage with a very grave man. And he preaches every Sunday out
of the little square pulpit, overhung by a great, tremulous
sounding-board, to the congregation, sitting silently listening below,
within the church.
I come every year to the parsonage, and in my visiting-time I occupy
this tower. It is quite deserted when I am away, for I carry the key,
and keep it with me wherever I go. I hang it at night where I can see
the great shadow wavering on the ceiling above my head, when the jet
of gas, trembling in the night-wind below, sends a shimmer of light
into my room.
It is a skeleton-key. It wouldn't open ordinary homes. There's a
something about it that seems to say, as plainly as words _can_
say, "There are prisoners within"; and as oft as my eyes see it
hanging there, I say, "I am your jailer."
On the first day of March, in the year one thousand eight hundred and
sixty, I arrived at the parsonage. It was early morning when I saw the
little wooden church-"steeple," in the distance, and the sun was not
risen when she who said the "naughty words" and the grave minister
came out to welcome me.
Ere the noontide came, I had learned who had gone from the village,
all unattended, on the mysterious journey, since last I had been
there. There were new souls within the town. And a few, that had been
two, were called one. These things I heard whilst the minister sat in
his study up-stairs, and held his head upon his hands, thinking over
the theology of the schools; his wife, meanwhile, in the room below,
working out a strange elective predestination, free-will gifts to be,
for some little ones that had strayed into the fold to be warmed and
clothed and fed. At length the village "news" having all been imparted
to me, I gave a thought to my tower.
"How is the old place?" asked I, as my sister paused a moment in the
cutting out of a formula for a coat, destined for a growing boy.
"Don't get excited about the tower yet, Sister Anna," she said; "let
it alone one day."
"Oh, I can't, Sophie!" I said; "it's such a length of days since I sat
in the grated window!"--and I looked out as I spoke.
Square and small and high stood the tower, as high as the church's
eaves.
"What could it have been built for?"
I knew not that I had spoken my thought, until Sophie answered,--
"We have found out recently that the tower was here when the first
church was built. It may have been here, for aught we know, before
white men came."
"Perhaps the church was built near to it for safety," I suggested.
"It has been very useful," said Sophie. "Not long ago, the first
night in January, I think, Mr. Bronson came to see my husband. He
lived here when he was a boy, and remembers stories told by his father
of escapes, from the church to the tower, of women and children, at
the approach of Indians. One stroke of the bell during service, and
all obeyed the signal. Deserted was the church, and peopled the
tower, when the foes came up to meet the defenders outside."
"I knew my darling old structure had a history," said I. "Is there
time for me to take one little look before dinner?"
"No," somewhat hastily said Sophie; "and I don't wish you to go up
there alone."
"Don't wish me to go alone, Sophie? Why, I have spent hours there,
and never a word said you."
"I--believe--the--place--is--haunted," slowly replied she, "by living,
human beings."
"Never! Why, Sophie, think how absurd! Here's the key,--a great,
strong, honest key; where could another be found to open the heavy
door? Such broad, true wards it has,--look, and believe!"
As if unhearing, Sophie went on,--
"I certainly heard a voice in there one day. Old Mother Hudson died,
and was buried in the corner, close beside the church. My husband went
away as soon as the burial was over, and I came across the graveyard
alone. It was a bright winter's day, with the ground all asnow, and no
footstep had broken the fleecy white that lay on my way. As I passed
under the tower I heard a voice, and the words, too, Anna, as plainly
as ever spoken words were heard."
"What were they, Sophie?"
"'But hope will not die; it has a root of life that goes down into the
granite formation; human hand cannot reach it.'"
"Who said it?" I asked.
"That is the mystery, Anna. The words were plainly spoken; the voice
was that of one who has sailed out into the region of great storms,
and found that heavy calms are more oppressive."
"Was it voice of man?"
"Yes, deep and earnest."
"Where did it come from?"
"From the high window up there, I thought."
"And there were no footsteps near?"
"I told you, none; my own were the first that had crossed the
church-yard that day."
"You know, Sophie, we voice our own thoughts sometimes all
unknowingly; and knowing the thought only, we might dissever the
voice, and call it another's."
Sophie looked up from the table upon which she had been so
industriously cutting, and holding in one hand an oddly shapen sleeve,
she gave a demonstrative wave at me, and said,--
"Anna, your distinctions are too absurd for reason to examine
even. Have I a voice that _could command an army_, or shout out
orders in a storm at sea? Have I the voice of a man?"
Sophie had a depth of azure in her eyes that looked ocean-deep into an
interior soul; she had softly purplish windings of hair around a low,
cool brow, that said, "There are no torrid thoughts in me." And yet I
always felt that there was an equator in Sophie's soul, only no mortal
could find it. Looking at her, as thus she stood, I forgot that she
Lad questioned me.
"Why do you look at me so?" she asked. "Answer me! Have I the voice of
a man? Listen now! Hear Aaron up-stairs: he's preaching to himself, to
convince himself that some thorn in theology grows naturally: could I
do that?"
"Your voice, I fancy, can do wonders: but about the theology, I don't
believe you like thorns in it; I think you would break one off at
once, and cast it out";--and I looked again at the rough tower, and
ran my fingers over the strong protective key in my hands.
"Don't look that way, Anna,--please don't!--for your footsteps have an
ugly way of following some will-o'-the-wisp that goes out of your
eyes. I know it,--I've seen it all your life," Sophie urged, as I
shook my head in negation.
"Will you lend me this hood?" I asked, as I took up one lying near.
"If you are determined to go; but do wait. Aaron shall go with you
after dinner; he will have settled the thorn by that time."
"What for should I take Aaron up the winding stairs? There is no
parishioner in want or dying up there."
And I tied the hood about my head, and in a wrapping-shawl, closely
drawn,--for cold and cannon-like came the bursts of wind down through
the mountain valleys,--I went out. Through the path, hedged with
leafless lilac-shrubs, just athrob with the mist of life sent up from
the roots below, I went, and crossed the church-yard fence. Winding in
and out among the graves,--for upon a heart, living and joyous, or
still and dead, I cannot step,--I took my way. "Dear old tower, I have
thee at last!" I said; for I talk to unanswering things all over the
world. In crowded streets I speak, and murmur softly to highest
heights.
But I quite forgot to tell what my tower was built like, and of what
it was made. A few miles away, a mountain, neither very large nor very
high, has met with some sad disaster that cleaved its stony shell, and
so, time out of memory, the years have stolen into its being, and
winter frosts have sadly cut it up, and all along its rocky ridges,
and thickly at its base, lie beds of shaly fragments, as various in
form and size as the autumn-leaves that November brings.
I've traced these bits of broken stone all the way from yonder
mountain hither; and that once my tower stood firm and fast in the
hill's heart, I know.
There are sides and curves, concaves and convexities, and angles of
every degree, in the stones that make up my tower. The vexing question
is, What conglomerated the mass?
No known form of cement is here, and so the simple village-people say,
"It was not built by the present race of men."
On the northern side of the tower leaves of ungathered snow still lay.
In the key-hole all winter must have been dead, crispy, last-year
leaves, mingled with needles of the pine-tree that stands in the
church-yard corner; for I drew out fragment after fragment, before I
could find room for my key. At last the opening was free, and my
precious bit of old iron had given intimation of doing duty and
letting me in, when a touch upon my shoulder startled me.
'T was true the wind was as rude as possible, but I knew it never
could grasp me in that way. It was Aaron.
"What is the matter?" I asked; for he had come without his hat.
My brother-in-law, rejoicing in the authoritative name of Aaron,
looked decidedly foolish, as I turned my clear brown eyes upon him,
standing flushed and anxious, with only March wind enveloping his hair
all astir with breezes of Theology and Nature.
"Sophie sent me," he said, with all the meekness belonging to a former
family that had an Aaron in it.
"What does Sophie wish?" I asked.
"She says it's dinner-time."
"And did she send you out in such a hurry to tell me that?"
"No, Anna,"--and the importance of his mission grew upon him, for he
spoke quite firmly,--"Sophie is troubled and anxious about your visit
to this tower; please turn the key and come away."
"I will, if you give me good reason," I said.
"Why do you wish to go up, just now?"
"Simply because I like it."
"To gratify a passing fancy?"
"Nothing more, I do assure you; but why shouldn't I?"--and I grasped
the key with a small attempt at firmness of purpose.
"Because Sophie dislikes it. She called to me to come and keep you
from going in; there was distress in her manner. Won't you come away,
for now?"
He had given me a reason. I rejoice in being reasonable. I lent him a
bit of knitting-work that I happened to have brought with me, with
which he kept down his locks, else astray, and walked back with him.
"You are not offended?" he asked, as we drew near to the door.
"Oh, no!"
Sophie hid something that had been very close to her eyes, as we went
in.
My brother-in-law gave me back my strip of knitting-work, and went
upstairs.
"You think I'm selfish, Anna," spoke Sophie, when he was gone.
"I don't."
"You can't help it, I think."
"But I can. I recognize a law of equilibrium that forbids me to think
so."
"How? What is the law like?"
"Did you ever go upon the top of a great height, whether of building
or earth?"
"Oh, yes,--and I'm not afraid at all. I can go out to the farthest
edge, where other heads would feel the motion of the earth, perhaps,
and I stand firm as though the north-pole were my support."
"That is just it," replied I. "Now it puts all my fear in action, and
imagination works indescribable horrors in my mind, to stand even upon
a moderate elevation, or to see a little child take the first steps at
the head of a staircase; and I think it would be the height of cruelty
for you to go and stand where it gave me such pain."
"I wouldn't do it knowingly,"--and the blue in Sophie's eyes was misty
as she spoke.
"How did you feel about my going into the tower a few moments ago?"
"As you would, if you saw me on a jutting rock over the age-chiselled
chasm at Niagara."
"Thus I felt that it would be wrong to go in, though I had no
fear. But you will go with me, perhaps, this afternoon; I can't quite
give up my devotion."
"If Aaron can't, I will," she said; but a bit of pallor whitened her
face as she promised.
I thoroughly hate ghosts. There is an antagonism between mystery and
me. My organs of hearing have been defended by the willingest of
fingers, from my childhood, against the slightest approach of the
appearance or the actions of one, as pictured in description. I think
I'm afraid. But in the mid-day flood of sunlight, and the great sweep
of air that enveloped my tower, standing very near to the church,
where good words only were spoken, and where prayers were prayed by
true-hearted people, _why_ should my cool-browed sister Sophie
deter me from a pleasure simple and true, one that I had grown to
like, weaving fancies where I best pleased? I asked myself this
question, with a current of impatience flowing beneath it, as I waited
for Sophie to finish the "sewing-society work," which must go to
Deacon Downs's before two of the clock.
I know she did not hasten. I know she wished for an interruption; but
none came. The work-basket was duly sent off, whither Sophie soon must
follow; for her hands, and her good, true heart, were both in the work
she had taken up to do. Sophie won't lay it down discouraged; she
sees plains of verdure away on,--a sort of _mirage_ of the
mind. I cannot. It is not given unto me.
I had prepared the way to open the door of the tower when Aaron
interrupted me in the morning. I didn't keep Sophie standing long in
the wind, but she was trembling when I said,--
"Help me a little; my door has grown heavy this winter."
It creaked on its hinges, rusted with the not-far-away sea-air; and a
good strong pull, from four not very strong hands, was necessary to
admittance. Darkness was inside, except the light that we let in. We
stood a little, to accustom our eyes to the glimmer of rays that came
down from the high-up window, and those that went up from the open
door. At length they met, and mingled in a half-way gloom. There were
broad winding stairs, with every inch of standing-room well used; for
wherever within a mortal might be, there was fixed a foundation.
"What's the use of going up, Anna? It's only a few minutes that we
can stay."
Sophie looked pale and weary.
"You shall not," I said; "stay here; let me reconnoitre: I'll come
down directly."
I left her standing outside,--or rather, I felt her going out, as I
ran lightly on, up the rude stairway. Past a few of the landings, (how
short the way seemed this day!) and I was beside the window. I looked
across into the belfry of the church, lying scarce a hundred feet
away. I thought it was bird-time; but no,--deserted were the beamy
rafters and the spaces between.
What is this upon the window-bar? A scrap, a shred of colored
fabric. "It has been of woman's wear," thought I, as I took the little
bit from off its fastening-hook; "but how came it here? It isn't
anything that I have worn, nor Sophie. A grave, brown, plaid morsel of
a woman's dress, up here in my tower, locked all the winter, and the
key never away from me!"
Ah! what is that? A paper, on the floor. I got down from the high
window-ledge, where I had climbed to get the piece of cloth, and
picked
|
lion's mane; what so many young people nowadays would esteem a
splendid adornment. These forefathers of ours in the time of Charlemagne
were yet mere heathen and held to their heathen idol worship with
extraordinary tenacity and devotion. They were further a wild, bold,
stiffnecked people, with an unbending spirit, holding fast to everything
old, and with that, loving freedom above all else. They had no rulers,
properly speaking; each house-father was a despotic prince in his own
house, and lived alone upon his territory, just that he might be free
and rule his realm independently. Their common name, Saxon, came from a
peculiar weapon, the sachs; a stone war-mallet or battle-axe, which was
made fast to a longer or shorter wooden handle. In the strong hands of
the Saxons this was a fearful weapon, with which they rushed fearlessly
upon the foe, hastening to come to a hand-to-hand fight; for they liked
to be at close quarters with their enemies.
"'Wild and terrible as their other customs were, was also their idol
worship. Their principal deity was called Woden, in whose honour men
were slaughtered upon great blocks of stone; their throats being cut
with stone knives. Not far off, some two or three hours from
Hermannsburg, are still what are called the seven _stone-houses_; in
other words, blocks of granite set up in a square, upon which a great
granite block lies like a cover. The men to be sacrificed were slain
upon these blocks of granite. Quite near our village too, there stood
formerly some such sacrificial altars. How fearful and bloody these
sacrifices were, appears from what an old writer relates; that it was
the custom of the Saxons, when they returned home from their warlike
expeditions, to sacrifice to their idols every tenth man among the
captives; the rest they shared among themselves for slaves. And upon
special occasions, for instance, if they had suffered severe losses in
the war, the whole of the captives would be consecrated to Woden and
sacrificed. That's the Woden we call one day of the week after.'"
"We? One day of the week!" exclaimed Maggie; while Flora looked up and
said, "Oh yes! Wednesday."
"Wednesday?" repeated Maggie.
"Woden's-day," said Meredith.
"Is it Woden's-day? Wednesday? But how come we to call it so, Ditto?"
"Because our fathers did."
"But that is very strange. I don't think we ought to call it
Woden's-day."
"The Germans do not call it so, who live at this time round those old
stone altars; they say Mittwoche, or Mid-week. But the English Saxons
seem to have kept up the title."
"Are those stone altars standing now, Ditto?"
"Some of them, Pastor Harms says; and what is very odd, it seems they
call them stone _houses_; and don't you recollect Jacob called his stone
that he set up at Bethel, 'God's house'?"
"Well, Ditto, go on please," said Maggie.
"You don't care for archæology. Well--'The German emperor Charlemagne,
who reigned from 768 to 814, was a good Christian. He governed the
kingdom of the Franks; and that means the whole of central and southern
Germany, together with France and Italy; and all these, his subjects,
had been already Christian a long time. On the north his empire was
bordered by our heathen ancestors, the Saxons, and they were the sworn
foes of Christianity. Whenever they could, they made a rush upon
Charlemagne's dominions, plundered and killed, destroyed the churches
and put to death the Christian priests; and were never quiet. So
Charlemagne determined to make war upon the Saxons, partly to protect
his kingdom against their inroads, and partly with the intent to convert
them with a strong hand to the Christian religion. Then arose a fearful
war of thirty-three years' length, which by both sides was carried on
with great bitterness. The Saxons had, in especial, two valiant,
heroic-hearted leaders, called "dukes" because they led the armies. The
word "duke," therefore, means the same as army-leader. The one of them
in Westphalia was named Wittekind; the other in Eastphalia was named
Albion, also called Alboin. Charlemagne was in a difficult position. If
he beat the Saxons, and thought, now they would surely keep the peace,
and he went off then to some more distant part of his great empire,
immediately the Saxons broke loose again, and the war began anew.
Charlemagne was made so bitter by this, that once when he had beaten the
Saxons at Verden on the Aller, and surrounded their army, he ordered
4500 captive Saxons to be cut to pieces, hoping so to give a
disheartening example. But just the contrary befell. Wittekind and
Albion now gathered together an imposing army to avenge the cruel deed;
and fought two bloody battles, at Osnabrück and Detmold, with such
furious valour that they thrust Charlemagne back, and took 4000
prisoners; and these prisoners, as a Lüneburg chronicle says, they
slaughtered--part on the Blocksberg, part in the Osnabrück country, and
part on the "stone-houses;" where the same chronicle relates that
Wittekind, on his black war-horse, in furious joy, would have galloped
over the bleeding corpses which lay around the stone-houses: but his
horse shied from treading on the human bodies, and making a tremendous
leap, struck his hoof so violently against one of the stone-houses that
the mark of the hoof remained. Wittekind elsewhere in the chronicle is
described as a noble, magnanimous hero; and this madness of war in him
is explained on the ground of his hatred of Christians, and revenge for
the death of the Saxons at Verden.
"'At last, in the year 785, Wittekind and Albion were baptized, and
embraced the Christian religion. Thereupon came peace among that part of
the Saxons which held them in consideration, for the most distinguished
men by degrees followed their example; and it was only in the other
portions of the country that the war lasted until the year 805; when at
last the whole country of the Saxons submitted to Charlemagne, renounced
heathenism, and accepted Christianity. So hard did it go with our
forefathers before they could become Christians; but once Christians,
they became so zealous for the Christian faith that their land
afterwards was called "Good Saxony" as before it had been known as "Wild
Saxony." Charlemagne, however, was not merely at the pains to subdue the
Saxons, and to compel them into the Christian faith, but as a truly
pious emperor, he also took care that they should be instructed; and
wherever he could he established bishoprics and churches. For example,
the sees of Minden, Osnabrück, Verden, Bremen, Münster, Paderhorn,
Halberstadt, and Hildesheim, all situated in the Saxon country, owe
their origin to him. At all these places there were mission
establishments, from which preachers went out into the whole land, to
preach the Gospel to the heathen Saxons.
"'Among those Willehad and Liudgar were distinguished for their zeal.
With untiring faithfulness, with steadfast faith, and great
self-sacrifice, they laboured, and their works were greatly blessed of
the Lord. Willehad finally became bishop in Bremen and Liudgar bishop of
Münster. They may with justice be called the apostles of the Saxons. In
a remarkable manner the conversion of our own parts hereabouts proceeded
from the mission establishment in Minden. Liudgar had lived there a long
while, and his piety and his ardour had infected the young monks
assembled there with a live zeal for missions. One of these monks, who
the chronicle tells came from Eastphalia, and had been converted to
Christianity through Liudgar's means, was called Landolf. Now when
Wittekind and Albion had received holy baptism, and so a door was opened
in the Saxon land to the messengers of salvation, Landolf could stand it
no longer in Münden, but determined to go back to his native Eastphalia
and carry the sweet Gospel to his beloved countrymen. He had no rest day
nor night; the heathen Eastphalians were always standing before him and
calling to him, "Come here and help us!"'"
"There!" said Meredith pausing, "that's how I feel."
Every one of the three heads around him was lifted up.
"You, Ditto?" exclaimed Maggie, but the others only looked.
"Yes," said Meredith, "I feel just so."
"About whom?" said his sister abruptly.
"All the heathen. Nobody in particular, Everybody who doesn't know the
Lord Jesus."
"You had better begin at home!" said Flora with an accent of scorn.
"I do," said her brother gravely; and Flora was silent, for she knew he
did.
"But why, dear Ditto?" said Maggie, with a mixture of anxiety and
curiosity.
"I am so sorry for them, Maggie." And watching, she could see that
Meredith's downcast eyes were swimming. "Think--_they do not know
Jesus_; and what is life worth without that?"
"But it isn't everybody's place to go preaching," said Flora after a
minute.
"Can you prove it? I think it is."
"Mine, for instance, and Maggie's?"
"What is preaching, in the first place? It is just telling other people
the truth you know yourself. But you must know it first. I don't think
it is your place to tell what you do not know. But the Bible says, 'Let
him that heareth say, Come!' and I think we, who have heard, ought to
say it. And I think," added Meredith slowly, "if anybody is as glad of
it himself as he ought to be, he cannot help saying it. It will burn in
his heart if he don't say it."
"But what do you want to do, Ditto?" Maggie asked again.
"I don't know, Maggie. Not preach in churches; I am not fit for that.
But I want to tell all I can. People seem to me so miserable that do not
know Christ. So miserable!"
"But, Ditto," said Maggie again, "you can give money to send
missionaries."
"Pay somebody else to do my work?"
"You can tell people here at home."
"Well--" said Meredith with a long breath, "let us see what Landolf the
Saxon did."
CHAPTER III.
"'What did this man do in the daring of faith? He first got permission
of his superiors; then he went aboard of a little boat, took nothing
else with him but his Bible and his Prayer-book, his few tools, a
fishing net, and food for several days, and then dropped down the Weser,
all alone, intending by that way to get to the Eastphalians. But his
chief strength was prayer, in which he lived day and night. When he came
to the place where the Aller flows into the Weser, he quitted the Weser
and went up the Aller, that he might look at the spot where those 4500
Saxons were cut to pieces by Charlemagne, and on the ground pray for the
murdered men. For at that time it was believed that even the dead could
be helped by prayer, as is still the erroneous teaching of the
Catholics. Leaving that place, he wished to visit the "stone-houses,"
that he might pray there too, where the captive Franks had been
slaughtered by the Saxons; and so he went on up the Aller and from the
Aller into the Oerze, all the while living upon the fish which he
caught.'"
"Had he no bread?" said Maggie.
"How should he?--going through wild woods and countries lone in his
boat? He would come to no bakers' shops, Maggie."
"Just living on fish! Well, go on, Ditto."
"'But all along on this journey he had not only caught fish, but also
everywhere preached the Gospel. And then must have been the first time
that the sweet name of Jesus was ever heard in our region. Perhaps when
you look at the map you will ask, why Landolf went this difficult way by
water, which was a very roundabout way besides, to get to the
"stone-houses," when he could have come across from Verden by a much
nearer and straighter route? Our chronicle gives two reasons: first, the
whole interior of the country at that time was almost nothing but thick
forest and deep morasses, through which there was no going on foot; and
secondly, he had been told in Verden, that if he wanted to visit the
"stone-houses," he must first go to the Billing of the long-legged
Horz-Saxons, who lived on the river Horz in Harm's "_ouden dorp_." Now
this river Horz is the Oerze; and the name, the chronicle announces,
comes from the fact that this river runs and leaps like a _Horz_--that
is, a horse; and because a great many horses were pastured on its banks.
For the chief wealth of our Saxon ancestors consisted in cattle,
especially in horses, which they used not only for riding and in war
expeditions, but reckoned their flesh a favourite food. And were a horse
but entirely spotless and white, it was even held to be sacred. Such
white horses were kept in the sacred forests of oak, where they were
used for nothing but soothsaying; for by the neighing of these white
horses the heathen priests prophesied whether a business, or a campaign,
that was in hand, would turn out happily or unhappily. For this reason
also our Lüneburg country since the earliest times has borne the free,
bounding horse in its escutcheon; and for the same reason most of the
houses in the country of Lüneburg down to the present times have their
gables adorned with two wooden horses' heads; and it is only lately that
this custom has somewhat fallen off.
"'The Saxons, or as the chronicle writes, _Sahzen_, were called
"Horzsahzen," either because they lived on the Horz, or Oerze; or
because they were almost all of them horsemen and owned a great many
horses. They bore besides the honorary title of the "long-legged," for
our forefathers were distinguished by their unusual stature. It is
remarkable that the name "Lange" is still the widest spread family name
of any in our region, so that there are villages that are almost
exclusively inhabited by "Langen," among whom a goodly number might yet
be called "long-legged;" though many also have grown something shorter,
while they nevertheless bear the name of _Lange_. Well, that is all
one, so they only keep the old, tried faithfulness and honesty, and the
manly holding to their word, and the beautiful pureness of morals, for
which our forefathers were renowned.
"'But now, what sort of a man is the _Billing_? Our chronicle translates
the word into Latin; _curatos legum_, that is, the "guardian of the
laws." _Bill_, you see, in old low German or Saxon, was a "law" which
had been confirmed by the whole assembly of the people; and the man who
proposed these laws, and when they were confirmed had the charge of
seeing that they were not transgressed, was called the _Billing_. The
Billing of the Horzsahzen was at this time a man named Harm, that is
Hermann; and he lived in Harm's _ouden dorp_--or Hermann's old village.
The spot where this old village of Hermann stood is now a cultivated
field, about ten minutes away from the present Hermannsburg; and this
field is still called at the present day _up'n Ollendorp_, and lies
right on the Oerze. To this place accordingly the brave Landolf
repaired, and was received kindly and with the customary Saxon
hospitality by Hermann the Billing.
"'Hermann's dwelling was a large cottage, surrounded with pens for
cattle, especially for horses, which were pastured on the river meadows.
There were no stables; the animals remained day and night under the open
sky, and even in winter time had no shelter beyond that of the thick
forest with which the land was covered. The pens themselves were merely
enclosures without a roof. Landolf was entertained with roasted horses'
flesh, which to the astonishment of his hosts he left untouched. For by
the rules of the Christian Church at that time it was not permitted to
eat horse-flesh; they reckoned it a heathen practice.
"'When Landolf had made his abode with the Billing for a while, he found
out that his host was in fact the principal person in all that district
of country, and as guardian of the laws enjoyed a patriarchal and
wide-reaching consideration. He was indeed no _edeling_ (or nobleman),
only a _freiling_--a free man; but he possessed seven large manors; on
which account later writers, as for instance Adam of Bremen, give the
Billing family the name of _Siebenmeyer_.' (_Sieben_ means seven,
Maggie.) 'The oldest son, who regularly bore the name of Hermann, was
the family head; and after the death of his father the dignity of
Billing descended to him. The younger brothers were settled in some of
the other manors, remaining nevertheless always dependent upon the
oldest.
"'Now Landolf preached the Gospel zealously to the family whose guest he
was, and they listened to him with willing ears. But when he would have
declared his message also to the Saxons who lived in their
neighbourhood, Hermann explained to him that by law and usage he must
not do that, until permission had first been given him by the regular
assembly of the people. As the house-father he himself could indeed in
his own family allow the proclamation of the Christian faith; but a
public proclamation must have the decision of the people upon it, that
is, of the assembly of all the free men. Landolf had arrived in the
autumn--the stated gathering of the commons would not be till spring,
and indeed not till May; in the meanwhile he must be contented. Hard as
it was for Landolf to wait so long, for his heart was burning to convert
the poor heathen to Christ, he yet knew the people and their customs too
well to contend against them. So all winter he abode with Hermann. And a
blessed winter that was. It was the habit of the family, when at evening
a fire was kindled in the middle of the hut, that the whole household,
men, women, and children, even the servants and maids, should assemble
around it--the master of the house having the place of honour in the
midst of them. The house-father then generally told stories about the
heroic deeds of their forefathers; about the ancient laws and usages,
the knowledge of which was handed down from father to son; and Landolf
sat among them and listened with the rest, but soon got permission to
tell on his part of the wonderful things of the Christian faith. So then
he profited by the long winter evenings to tell over the whole Bible
story of the Old and New Testaments. And with such simplicity, and with
such joy of faith and confidence he told it, that the hearts of his
hearers were stirred. In addition to that, he often sang the songs of
the Christian Church, in a clear, fine-toned voice; and presently some
among them, the younger especially, began to join in the singing. His
Bible stories were in all their mouths; and the people had such capital
memories that, he says himself, he needed usually to tell a thing but
once or twice, and all of them, even the children, could repeat it
almost word for word. This is a common experience among people who have
no written literature; they are apt to be uncommonly strong in power of
memory. And when he prayed too, and he did it daily upon his knees, he
was never disturbed, although he prayed in the cottage, which had only
one room for all; instead, he soon had the joy of seeing that many
kneeled down with him and with him called upon Christ, "the God of the
Christians," as they phrased it. So the winter passed, May came, ice and
snow melted away, and everybody got ready to attend the great assembly
of the people. It was to be held at the stone-houses. Landolf travelled
thither as Hermann's guest, under his protection--Hermann even letting
him ride his best horse, by way of doing him honour before all the
people. With a noble train of _freilings_--that is, of free men--they set
forth.
"'The first day, however, they went no further than about a quarter of
an hour from Harm's _ouden dorp_, to a sacrificial altar which was
placed close by what was called the Deep Moor (Deepenbroock, the
chronicle says). There Landolf was to be spectator of a terrible scene,
which shows as well the frightful savageness and cruelty of the Saxons
as their noble purity of manners. By about noon of the abovenamed day,
all the free men of that whole region had gathered together at the altar
of sacrifice. This altar consisted, as may still be seen by the
so-called _stone-houses_ now standing, of eight slabs of granite, set up
in a quadrangle; with four openings, or doors, towards the four quarters
of the heaven, broad enough to let a man go through; and covered over
on the top with another great granite block. The young warriors brought
up two prisoners, who had been taken in a late campaign and fetched
along. One of them was made to go under the sacrifice altar through the
north and south doors, the other through the east and west doors. Then
stepped forth two priests, having their long flowing hair bound with a
mistletoe branch, and a sharp knife of flint in the hand. You must know
that the mistletoe, which is still to be found in plenty in our woods,
growing especially on birch trees, was held among our forefathers to be
sacred. For since it does not grow upon the ground like other plants,
but upon trees, birches particularly, it was believed that the seed of
this plant fell down from heaven; and this belief was strengthened by
the remarkable manner of its growth, so unlike other plants, with its
forking opposite branches and shining white berries. After solemn
prayers, which were half sung half said, to the two gods Woden and Thor,
and the two goddesses Hela and Hertha, the captive men were one after
the other laid each upon his back on the altar, so that his head hung
down over the edge of the altar.'"
"Oh, stop, Ditto!" cried Maggie.
"Why?"
"It is too horrible."
"It is pretty horrible. But men did it, and men suffered it. Can't you
hear it?"
"Men were dreadful!"
"Men _are_ dreadful where the light of the Gospel has not come. 'The
dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty.'"
"Tell me about those gods and goddesses."
"Were those Saxon Druids?" Flora asked.
"It sounds so. But I don't know the gods of the Teutons as well as I do
those of the Greeks; I can't tell you much about Woden and Thor, Maggie.
We'll look when we go home. Now, am I to go on?"
"I suppose so. Oh yes, I want you to go on. But it is dreadful."
"Well, the captives were laid on the altar, as I read, 'and the priests
cut their throats with their knives of flint. When the quivering victim
had ceased to bleed, the body was taken up by the young warriors and
cast into the Deep Moor, where it immediately sunk in the bog. Landolf
had not recovered from the shock--for he had never seen a human
sacrifice before, having gone while yet a boy into the country of the
Christians--when his attention was fettered by another dreadful drama.
"'Some of the young men fetched a long and broad hurdle, woven of fir
branches, laid it down before the altar, and went away; but came back
again presently with a man and a woman, who had been accused and
convicted of breaking the marriage vow. An accuser stepped forth, and
repeated the charge before the Billing. The Billing then asked the
accused whether the charge was true? and admonished them to confess the
truth, since never yet had a free Saxon told a lie. And when the guilty
people had owned their guilt, first their relations came forward and
spat in their faces; then the man's weapons were taken from him, his
hands and feet and the woman's were tied together: and so tied they were
thrown into the Deep Moor, the hurdle covered over them, and this and
the underlying bodies, by their nearest relations first of all, were
trodden down into the deep morass. So came the marriage-breakers to a
shameful end and received the reward of their sin.
"'Hermann told Landolf afterwards that there were three crimes which
they punished on this disgraceful wise--marriage-breaking, lying, and
cowardice; because such people were not held worthy to die the
honourable death of a warrior, and be slain with weapons. Landolf
answered "O Billing! you are terrible people! yet even as heathen you
hate the sins that you know. What would you be, if you were once
Christians, and the Lord Jesus gave you His light!"
"'And as I write down these words from the old chronicle, I could cast
my eyes to the ground for shame and weep tears of blood over the deep,
shameful apostasy of the German Christianity of the present day. Christ
gives us His light now; we are Christians now; but where have purity,
truth, and courage hid themselves? Are there ten in a hundred German
Christians that keep a pure life, true lips, and a brave heart? I do not
think it. Open and secret impurity, coarse and polished falsehood,
disgraceful cowardliness, fear of men and men-pleasing, have infested
the whole German Christian nation, and will soon bring down the judgment
of God; for "the bruise is incurable, and the wound is grievous." Great
and small, men and women, old and young, all are tainted with the
plague. Our heathen forefathers were better and cleaner in these things
than we Christians--they will condemn us at the last judgment, and we
shall have to stand abashed before them. And you that read this, if you
prize the name of a German--if, as you should, you prize a thousand
times more the name of a Christian--ask your conscience whether it has
not been uneasy under the foregoing narration; and if it has, then
repent, you degenerate German, you hypocritical Christian; repent in
sackcloth and ashes, and on your knees implore your God, the living
Saviour: "Jesus, my Lord, thou holy God, give me a pure nature, a lip of
faithfulness, and a bold heart, through the faith that is in Thee."
"'And now I must go on to tell what more befell that same day, in which
the devilish nature of heathenism among our forefathers was shown as
frightfully as in their murderous sacrifices. Far behindhand as our
ancestors at that time were in all civilisation, they nevertheless
already understood the art of preparing intoxicating drinks. For this
purpose they used especially the wild oats which grew all over, and the
darnel grass, of which a strong, intoxicating beer was brewed; and to
make it yet more stupefying, they added a certain marsh plant. And
scarce ever was there a sacrifice that was not concluded with a
drinking-bout. So it fell out at this time. Many writers tell, how among
the old Germans it was even made a boast to spend eight or even fourteen
days, one after another, in such carousals. On the occasion of which we
are speaking, indeed, they lasted only over the rest of that day and
through the night; for the next day the intent was to go on to the
stone-houses. But what horror must Landolf have felt even in that short
time! When all of them had got drunk, a quarrel sprang up; and as each
man had his weapons with him, his war-axe especially, the quarrel came
to duels between man and man; and soon blood was flowing from most of
the people, and several corpses lay here and there. The bodies were
burned, their ashes buried, and a round hillock of earth thrown up over
them; for, as it was thought, they had fallen in honourable fight, as it
became men to do. And when Landolf, full of astonishment, asked the
Billing, who of all the crowd was the only one that had remained sober,
whether they did not then punish people for murder? the Billing in
wonder retorted by the question, where the murderers were? There had
been nothing but an open, honest fight, which was to the honour of those
concerned in it.
"'Yet another abomination Landolf saw on this occasion, which, however,
was in a remarkable manner mixed up with truth and noblemindedness. I
mean that while this drinking-bout was going on, a number of men, young
and old, amused themselves with gaming, of which they were passionately
fond. To be sure they had no cards, neither dice. But they had little
longish, square cornered, wooden sticks, shaved white, and with certain
marks painted on the upper side. Each man took a certain number of these
in both hands, shook them, and threw them up in the air. When they fell
on the ground, they were carefully looked at to see how many of them lay
with the painted side up, and how many with the unpainted; and whoever
then had the most sticks with the painted side up, he had won. Upon each
throw they set some of their cattle, a hog, a cow, or an ox, or a horse;
perhaps at last a specially prized drinking vessel, made out of a ure-ox
horn; even finally, what they held to be most valuable of all, their
weapons; and at last Landolf saw a young man, who had lost all he had,
cast his freedom upon the last throw; and when this too was lost, he saw
how frankly and without grumbling he gave himself up to be the slave of
his fellow-player; so fast the German, even amid the bewilderments of
sin, held to truth and the inviolable keeping of his word once given.
Liberty was truly his most valuable and precious possession, for which
at any other time he was ready to die, arms in hand. And yet he yielded
this treasure quietly up, when he had lost it at play, rather than break
his word and his faith; if he were the stronger, he did not defend
himself; he did not take to flight, though he might have a hundred
opportunities--the free man who gloried in his freedom, became a slave,
that he might keep faith. This was how Landolf found things among the
heathen; he wept bitter tears over it; but he never desponded: so much
the firmer grew his resolution to preach the Gospel to this people, and
make the true God known to them. For the thought always rose in him,
what might come of a people whom God had so nobly endowed, among whom
even in the abominations of idolatry there shone forth such traits of
pureness of manners and nobleness of thought, were they but once renewed
and born again by the glorious Christian faith.
"'But if Landolf were to come to light again in these days, when we
_are_ Christians, what would he say of us? Outward culture truly he
would find--the face of the earth would indeed have changed. But if he
came into the inns, where drinking and gaming are going on, into the
so-called _Maybeers_, into the assemblies for eating and drinking, and
playing at weddings, and housewarmings, and christenings; or into the
private drinking and gaming parties in people's houses, the gaming hells
at the watering-places, the drinking carousals of students, the
companies of the noble, the so-called entertainments with which
everything must be celebrated in Germany--how confounded would he be, to
find that the drinking and gaming devil is still the ruling devil in
Germany! but, on the other hand, faith and truth are extinguished. It is
true what the old song says--"Most are Christians only in name. God's
true seed are thinly scattered, those who love and honour Christ and do
His pleasure!" Well, God mend it!'"
Meredith shut up his book.
"Ditto," said Maggie thoughtfully, "is it so bad here?"
"How do I know, Maggie?"
"But what do you _think_?"
Flora lifted up her head. "Now, Meredith, don't go and say something
absurd."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Why, the truth! that there are a great many nice people in America."
"I have no doubt, so there are in Germany."
"Then that talk is all stuff."
"Pastor Harms never talked stuff."
"How do you know?"
"I have read enough of him to know. He was one of those he calls God's
true seed."
"Then what did he mean? Or what do you mean?"
"Well, Flora, I will ask you a question: How many people do you know who
live to do Christ's will?"
Flora did not answer immediately. Maggie on her part went to
calculating.
"I know--I know--three!" she said slowly.
"_Three!_" said Flora. "Who are they?"
"That's not the question, Flo," said her brother. "How many do _you_
know?"
"Well," said Flora, "Mr. Murray is one, and you are another, I believe;
but there are other nice people in the world."
"I know people drink," said Maggie, so gravely and sagely that the
others laughed. "I do know. I have seen them at our house. You needn't
say anything, Esther; I have once or twice when I have been at dinner,
when you were not at home. Not papa, of course, and they don't do it
now. Papa won't have wine on the table at all, but I saw how they did.
Some of the gentlemen began with whisky and water, and one took brandy
and water, before dinner began."
"Oh stop, Maggie!" Esther exclaimed.
"No, but I want to tell you. Then they took Greek wine or Sauterne with
their soup. Then they took champagne with the dinner. Then they had
port wine with the cheese--oh, I recollect, Esther--and then they had
Madeira and sherry with dessert, and claret and Madeira and sherry with
the fruit. And some of them drank every one. I am glad papa won't have
wine at all now. Uncle Eden wouldn't, a good while ago."
"People used in England, not very long ago, to drink a bottle or two of
wine after dinner each man," said Meredith; "but it is not quite so bad
as that nowadays."
Flora was vexed, but silent; she too remembered bowls of punch and
baskets of champagne in _her_ father's time.
"And gaming--" said Maggie, and stopped.
"What?" said Meredith.
"I was thinking how fond Fenton was of it."
"Oh hush, Maggie! he wasn't!" Esther exclaimed.
"It was just the same thing, Uncle Eden said."
"Where is Fenton?" said Meredith.
"He's coming to-morrow. He likes champagne too, and other wine when he
can get it. And Bolivar--Bolivar put something in his lemonade!"
"Why, Maggie," said Meredith, smiling and passing his hand gently over
the little girl's head, "you are taking gloomy views of life!"
"I was only thinking, Ditto. But it seems to me so very strange that
people should be worse now than when they were heathen Saxons."
"People are a mixture now, you must remember. The good part are a great
deal better, and I suppose the bad part are
|
this national obligation. By their lofty claim of superior
sanctity the Jews might provoke the Polytheists to consider them as an
odious and impure race. By disdaining the intercourse of other nations,
they might deserve their contempt. The laws of Moses might be for the
most part frivolous or absurd; yet, since they had been received during
many ages by a large society, his followers were justified by the
example of mankind; and it was universally acknowledged, that they had
a right to practise what it would have been criminal in them to neglect.
But this principle, which protected the Jewish synagogue, afforded not
any favor or security to the primitive church. By embracing the faith of
the gospel, the Christians incurred the supposed guilt of an unnatural
and unpardonable offence. They dissolved the sacred ties of custom and
education, violated the religious institutions of their country, and
presumptuously despised whatever their fathers had believed as true,
or had reverenced as sacred. Nor was this apostasy (if we may use the
expression) merely of a partial or local kind; since the pious deserter
who withdrew himself from the temples of Egypt or Syria, would equally
disdain to seek an asylum in those of Athens or Carthage. Every
Christian rejected with contempt the superstitions of his family, his
city, and his province. The whole body of Christians unanimously refused
to hold any communion with the gods of Rome, of the empire, and of
mankind. It was in vain that the oppressed believer asserted the
inalienable rights of conscience and private judgment. Though his
situation might excite the pity, his arguments could never reach the
understanding, either of the philosophic or of the believing part of
the Pagan world. To their apprehensions, it was no less a matter
of surprise, that any individuals should entertain scruples against
complying with the established mode of worship, than if they had
conceived a sudden abhorrence to the manners, the dress, or the language
of their native country. *
The surprise of the Pagans was soon succeeded by resentment; and the
most pious of men were exposed to the unjust but dangerous imputation of
impiety. Malice and prejudice concurred in representing the Christians
as a society of atheists, who, by the most daring attack on the
religious constitution of the empire, had merited the severest
animadversion of the civil magistrate. They had separated themselves
(they gloried in the confession) from every mode of superstition
which was received in any part of the globe by the various temper of
polytheism: but it was not altogether so evident what deity, or what
form of worship, they had substituted to the gods and temples of
antiquity. The pure and sublime idea which they entertained of the
Supreme Being escaped the gross conception of the Pagan multitude,
who were at a loss to discover a spiritual and solitary God, that was
neither represented under any corporeal figure or visible symbol, nor
was adored with the accustomed pomp of libations and festivals, of
altars and sacrifices. The sages of Greece and Rome, who had elevated
their minds to the contemplation of the existence and attributes of
the First Cause, were induced by reason or by vanity to reserve
for themselves and their chosen disciples the privilege of this
philosophical devotion. They were far from admitting the prejudices of
mankind as the standard of truth, but they considered them as flowing
from the original disposition of human nature; and they supposed that
any popular mode of faith and worship which presumed to disclaim the
assistance of the senses, would, in proportion as it receded from
superstition, find itself incapable of restraining the wanderings of the
fancy, and the visions of fanaticism. The careless glance which men
of wit and learning condescended to cast on the Christian revelation,
served only to confirm their hasty opinion, and to persuade them that
the principle, which they might have revered, of the Divine Unity,
was defaced by the wild enthusiasm, and annihilated by the airy
speculations, of the new sectaries. The author of a celebrated dialogue,
which has been attributed to Lucian, whilst he affects to treat the
mysterious subject of the Trinity in a style of ridicule and contempt,
betrays his own ignorance of the weakness of human reason, and of the
inscrutable nature of the divine perfections.
It might appear less surprising, that the founder of Christianity should
not only be revered by his disciples as a sage and a prophet, but that
he should be adored as a God. The Polytheists were disposed to adopt
every article of faith, which seemed to offer any resemblance, however
distant or imperfect, with the popular mythology; and the legends of
Bacchus, of Hercules, and of ∆sculapius, had, in some measure, prepared
their imagination for the appearance of the Son of God under a human
form. But they were astonished that the Christians should abandon the
temples of those ancient heroes, who, in the infancy of the world, had
invented arts, instituted laws, and vanquished the tyrants or monsters
who infested the earth, in order to choose for the exclusive object of
their religious worship an obscure teacher, who, in a recent age, and
among a barbarous people, had fallen a sacrifice either to the malice
of his own countrymen, or to the jealousy of the Roman government. The
Pagan multitude, reserving their gratitude for temporal benefits alone,
rejected the inestimable present of life and immortality, which was
offered to mankind by Jesus of Nazareth. His mild constancy in the midst
of cruel and voluntary sufferings, his universal benevolence, and the
sublime simplicity of his actions and character, were insufficient, in
the opinion of those carnal men, to compensate for the want of fame,
of empire, and of success; and whilst they refused to acknowledge his
stupendous triumph over the powers of darkness and of the grave, they
misrepresented, or they insulted, the equivocal birth, wandering life,
and ignominious death, of the divine Author of Christianity.
The personal guilt which every Christian had contracted, in thus
preferring his private sentiment to the national religion, was
aggravated in a very high degree by the number and union of the
criminals. It is well known, and has been already observed, that Roman
policy viewed with the utmost jealousy and distrust any association
among its subjects; and that the privileges of private corporations,
though formed for the most harmless or beneficial purposes, were
bestowed with a very sparing hand. The religious assemblies of the
Christians who had separated themselves from the public worship,
appeared of a much less innocent nature; they were illegal in their
principle, and in their consequences might become dangerous; nor were
the emperors conscious that they violated the laws of justice, when,
for the peace of society, they prohibited those secret and sometimes
nocturnal meetings. The pious disobedience of the Christians made their
conduct, or perhaps their designs, appear in a much more serious and
criminal light; and the Roman princes, who might perhaps have suffered
themselves to be disarmed by a ready submission, deeming their honor
concerned in the execution of their commands, sometimes attempted, by
rigorous punishments, to subdue this independent spirit, which boldly
acknowledged an authority superior to that of the magistrate. The extent
and duration of this spiritual conspiracy seemed to render it everyday
more deserving of his animadversion. We have already seen that the
active and successful zeal of the Christians had insensibly diffused
them through every province and almost every city of the empire. The new
converts seemed to renounce their family and country, that they might
connect themselves in an indissoluble band of union with a peculiar
society, which every where assumed a different character from the rest
of mankind. Their gloomy and austere aspect, their abhorrence of the
common business and pleasures of life, and their frequent predictions of
impending calamities, inspired the Pagans with the apprehension of some
danger, which would arise from the new sect, the more alarming as it was
the more obscure. "Whatever," says Pliny, "may be the principle of their
conduct, their inflexible obstinacy appeared deserving of punishment."
The precautions with which the disciples of Christ performed the offices
of religion were at first dictated by fear and necessity; but they were
continued from choice. By imitating the awful secrecy which reigned in
the Eleusinian mysteries, the Christians had flattered themselves that
they should render their sacred institutions more respectable in the
eyes of the Pagan world. But the event, as it often happens to
the operations of subtile policy, deceived their wishes and their
expectations. It was concluded, that they only concealed what they
would have blushed to disclose. Their mistaken prudence afforded an
opportunity for malice to invent, and for suspicious credulity to
believe, the horrid tales which described the Christians as the most
wicked of human kind, who practised in their dark recesses every
abomination that a depraved fancy could suggest, and who solicited the
favor of their unknown God by the sacrifice of every moral virtue. There
were many who pretended to confess or to relate the ceremonies of this
abhorred society. It was asserted, "that a new-born infant, entirely
covered over with flour, was presented, like some mystic symbol of
initiation, to the knife of the proselyte, who unknowingly inflicted
many a secret and mortal wound on the innocent victim of his error; that
as soon as the cruel deed was perpetrated, the sectaries drank up
the blood, greedily tore asunder the quivering members, and pledged
themselves to eternal secrecy, by a mutual consciousness of guilt. It
was as confidently affirmed, that this inhuman sacrifice was succeeded
by a suitable entertainment, in which intemperance served as a
provocative to brutal lust; till, at the appointed moment, the lights
were suddenly extinguished, shame was banished, nature was forgotten;
and, as accident might direct, the darkness of the night was polluted
by the incestuous commerce of sisters and brothers, of sons and of
mothers."
But the perusal of the ancient apologies was sufficient to remove
even the slightest suspicion from the mind of a candid adversary. The
Christians, with the intrepid security of innocence, appeal from the
voice of rumor to the equity of the magistrates. They acknowledge, that
if any proof can be produced of the crimes which calumny has imputed to
them, they are worthy of the most severe punishment. They provoke the
punishment, and they challenge the proof. At the same time they urge,
with equal truth and propriety, that the charge is not less devoid of
probability, than it is destitute of evidence; they ask, whether any
one can seriously believe that the pure and holy precepts of the gospel,
which so frequently restrain the use of the most lawful enjoyments,
should inculcate the practice of the most abominable crimes; that a
large society should resolve to dishonor itself in the eyes of its own
members; and that a great number of persons of either sex, and every age
and character, insensible to the fear of death or infamy, should consent
to violate those principles which nature and education had imprinted
most deeply in their minds. Nothing, it should seem, could weaken the
force or destroy the effect of so unanswerable a justification, unless
it were the injudicious conduct of the apologists themselves, who
betrayed the common cause of religion, to gratify their devout hatred to
the domestic enemies of the church. It was sometimes faintly insinuated,
and sometimes boldly asserted, that the same bloody sacrifices, and
the same incestuous festivals, which were so falsely ascribed to the
orthodox believers, were in reality celebrated by the Marcionites, by
the Carpocratians, and by several other sects of the Gnostics, who,
notwithstanding they might deviate into the paths of heresy, were still
actuated by the sentiments of men, and still governed by the precepts
of Christianity. Accusations of a similar kind were retorted upon the
church by the schismatics who had departed from its communion, and it
was confessed on all sides, that the most scandalous licentiousness of
manners prevailed among great numbers of those who affected the name
of Christians. A Pagan magistrate, who possessed neither leisure nor
abilities to discern the almost imperceptible line which divides the
orthodox faith from heretical pravity, might easily have imagined that
their mutual animosity had extorted the discovery of their common guilt.
It was fortunate for the repose, or at least for the reputation, of the
first Christians, that the magistrates sometimes proceeded with more
temper and moderation than is usually consistent with religious zeal,
and that they reported, as the impartial result of their judicial
inquiry, that the sectaries, who had deserted the established worship,
appeared to them sincere in their professions, and blameless in their
manners; however they might incur, by their absurd and excessive
superstition, the censure of the laws.
Chapter XVI: Conduct Towards The Christians, From Nero To
Constantine.--Part II.
History, which undertakes to record the transactions of the past, for
the instruction of future ages, would ill deserve that honorable office,
if she condescended to plead the cause of tyrants, or to justify the
maxims of persecution. It must, however, be acknowledged, that the
conduct of the emperors who appeared the least favorable to the
primitive church, is by no means so criminal as that of modern
sovereigns, who have employed the arm of violence and terror against
the religious opinions of any part of their subjects. From their
reflections, or even from their own feelings, a Charles V. or a Lewis
XIV. might have acquired a just knowledge of the rights of conscience,
of the obligation of faith, and of the innocence of error. But the
princes and magistrates of ancient Rome were strangers to those
principles which inspired and authorized the inflexible obstinacy of the
Christians in the cause of truth, nor could they themselves discover in
their own breasts any motive which would have prompted them to refuse a
legal, and as it were a natural, submission to the sacred institutions
of their country. The same reason which contributes to alleviate the
guilt, must have tended to abate the vigor, of their persecutions.
As they were actuated, not by the furious zeal of bigots, but by the
temperate policy of legislators, contempt must often have relaxed, and
humanity must frequently have suspended, the execution of those laws
which they enacted against the humble and obscure followers of Christ.
From the general view of their character and motives we might naturally
conclude: I. That a considerable time elapsed before they considered the
new sectaries as an object deserving of the attention of government. II.
That in the conviction of any of their subjects who were accused of so
very singular a crime, they proceeded with caution and reluctance. III.
That they were moderate in the use of punishments; and, IV. That the
afflicted church enjoyed many intervals of peace and tranquility.
Notwithstanding the careless indifference which the most copious and
the most minute of the Pagan writers have shown to the affairs of
the Christians, it may still be in our power to confirm each of these
probable suppositions, by the evidence of authentic facts.
1. By the wise dispensation of Providence, a mysterious veil was cast
over the infancy of the church, which, till the faith of the Christians
was matured, and their numbers were multiplied, served to protect them
not only from the malice but even from the knowledge of the Pagan world.
The slow and gradual abolition of the Mosaic ceremonies afforded a safe
and innocent disguise to the more early proselytes of the gospel. As
they were, for the greater part, of the race of Abraham, they were
distinguished by the peculiar mark of circumcision, offered up their
devotions in the Temple of Jerusalem till its final destruction, and
received both the Law and the Prophets as the genuine inspirations of
the Deity. The Gentile converts, who by a spiritual adoption had been
associated to the hope of IsrÊl, were likewise confounded under the
garb and appearance of Jews, and as the Polytheists paid less regard
to articles of faith than to the external worship, the new sect, which
carefully concealed, or faintly announced, its future greatness and
ambition, was permitted to shelter itself under the general toleration
which was granted to an ancient and celebrated people in the Roman
empire. It was not long, perhaps, before the Jews themselves, animated
with a fiercer zeal and a more jealous faith, perceived the gradual
separation of their Nazarene brethren from the doctrine of the
synagogue; and they would gladly have extinguished the dangerous heresy
in the blood of its adherents. But the decrees of Heaven had already
disarmed their malice; and though they might sometimes exert the
licentious privilege of sedition, they no longer possessed the
administration of criminal justice; nor did they find it easy to infuse
into the calm breast of a Roman magistrate the rancor of their own zeal
and prejudice. The provincial governors declared themselves ready to
listen to any accusation that might affect the public safety; but as
soon as they were informed that it was a question not of facts but of
words, a dispute relating only to the interpretation of the Jewish laws
and prophecies, they deemed it unworthy of the majesty of Rome seriously
to discuss the obscure differences which might arise among a barbarous
and superstitious people. The innocence of the first Christians was
protected by ignorance and contempt; and the tribunal of the Pagan
magistrate often proved their most assured refuge against the fury of
the synagogue. If indeed we were disposed to adopt the traditions of a
too credulous antiquity, we might relate the distant peregrinations, the
wonderful achievements, and the various deaths of the twelve apostles:
but a more accurate inquiry will induce us to doubt, whether any of
those persons who had been witnesses to the miracles of Christ were
permitted, beyond the limits of Palestine, to seal with their blood the
truth of their testimony. From the ordinary term of human life, it may
very naturally be presumed that most of them were deceased before
the discontent of the Jews broke out into that furious war, which was
terminated only by the ruin of Jerusalem. During a long period, from
the death of Christ to that memorable rebellion, we cannot discover any
traces of Roman intolerance, unless they are to be found in the sudden,
the transient, but the cruel persecution, which was exercised by Nero
against the Christians of the capital, thirty-five years after the
former, and only two years before the latter, of those great events.
The character of the philosophic historian, to whom we are principally
indebted for the knowledge of this singular transaction, would alone be
sufficient to recommend it to our most attentive consideration.
In the tenth year of the reign of Nero, the capital of the empire was
afflicted by a fire which raged beyond the memory or example of former
ages. The monuments of Grecian art and of Roman virtue, the trophies of
the Punic and Gallic wars, the most holy temples, and the most splendid
palaces, were involved in one common destruction. Of the fourteen
regions or quarters into which Rome was divided, four only subsisted
entire, three were levelled with the ground, and the remaining seven,
which had experienced the fury of the flames, displayed a melancholy
prospect of ruin and desolation. The vigilance of government appears not
to have neglected any of the precautions which might alleviate the sense
of so dreadful a calamity. The Imperial gardens were thrown open to
the distressed multitude, temporary buildings were erected for their
accommodation, and a plentiful supply of corn and provisions was
distributed at a very moderate price. The most generous policy seemed to
have dictated the edicts which regulated the disposition of the streets
and the construction of private houses; and as it usually happens, in
an age of prosperity, the conflagration of Rome, in the course of a few
years, produced a new city, more regular and more beautiful than the
former. But all the prudence and humanity affected by Nero on this
occasion were insufficient to preserve him from the popular suspicion.
Every crime might be imputed to the assassin of his wife and mother; nor
could the prince who prostituted his person and dignity on the theatre
be deemed incapable of the most extravagant folly. The voice of rumor
accused the emperor as the incendiary of his own capital; and as the
most incredible stories are the best adapted to the genius of an
enraged people, it was gravely reported, and firmly believed, that
Nero, enjoying the calamity which he had occasioned, amused himself
with singing to his lyre the destruction of ancient Troy. To divert
a suspicion, which the power of despotism was unable to suppress,
the emperor resolved to substitute in his own place some fictitious
criminals. "With this view," continues Tacitus, "he inflicted the most
exquisite tortures on those men, who, under the vulgar appellation of
Christians, were already branded with deserved infamy. They derived
their name and origin from Christ, who in the reign of Tiberius had
suffered death by the sentence of the procurator Pontius Pilate. For a
while this dire superstition was checked; but it again burst forth;
* and not only spread itself over JudÊa, the first seat of this
mischievous sect, but was even introduced into Rome, the common asylum
which receives and protects whatever is impure, whatever is atrocious.
The confessions of those who were seized discovered a great multitude
of their accomplices, and they were all convicted, not so much for the
crime of setting fire to the city, as for their hatred of human kind.
They died in torments, and their torments were imbittered by insult and
derision. Some were nailed on crosses; others sewn up in the skins of
wild beasts, and exposed to the fury of dogs; others again, smeared
over with combustible materials, were used as torches to illuminate
the darkness of the night. The gardens of Nero were destined for the
melancholy spectacle, which was accompanied with a horse-race and
honored with the presence of the emperor, who mingled with the populace
in the dress and attitude of a charioteer. The guilt of the Christians
deserved indeed the most exemplary punishment, but the public abhorrence
was changed into commiseration, from the opinion that those unhappy
wretches were sacrificed, not so much to the public welfare, as to the
cruelty of a jealous tyrant." Those who survey with a curious eye the
revolutions of mankind, may observe, that the gardens and circus of
Nero on the Vatican, which were polluted with the blood of the first
Christians, have been rendered still more famous by the triumph and by
the abuse of the persecuted religion. On the same spot, a temple, which
far surpasses the ancient glories of the Capitol, has been since erected
by the Christian Pontiffs, who, deriving their claim of universal
dominion from an humble fisherman of Galilee, have succeeded to the
throne of the CÊsars, given laws to the barbarian conquerors of Rome,
and extended their spiritual jurisdiction from the coast of the Baltic
to the shores of the Pacific Ocean.
But it would be improper to dismiss this account of Nero's persecution,
till we have made some observations that may serve to remove the
difficulties with which it is perplexed, and to throw some light on the
subsequent history of the church.
1. The most sceptical criticism is obliged to respect the truth of this
extraordinary fact, and the integrity of this celebrated passage of
Tacitus. The former is confirmed by the diligent and accurate Suetonius,
who mentions the punishment which Nero inflicted on the Christians, a
sect of men who had embraced a new and criminal superstition. The latter
may be proved by the consent of the most ancient manuscripts; by the
inimitable character of the style of Tacitus by his reputation, which
guarded his text from the interpolations of pious fraud; and by the
purport of his narration, which accused the first Christians of the most
atrocious crimes, without insinuating that they possessed any miraculous
or even magical powers above the rest of mankind. 2. Notwithstanding it
is probable that Tacitus was born some years before the fire of Rome,
he could derive only from reading and conversation the knowledge of an
event which happened during his infancy. Before he gave himself to the
public, he calmly waited till his genius had attained its full maturity,
and he was more than forty years of age, when a grateful regard for
the memory of the virtuous Agricola extorted from him the most early of
those historical compositions which will delight and instruct the most
distant posterity. After making a trial of his strength in the life of
Agricola and the description of Germany, he conceived, and at length
executed, a more arduous work; the history of Rome, in thirty books,
from the fall of Nero to the accession of Nerva. The administration
of Nerva introduced an age of justice and propriety, which Tacitus had
destined for the occupation of his old age; but when he took a nearer
view of his subject, judging, perhaps, that it was a more honorable or
a less invidious office to record the vices of past tyrants, than to
celebrate the virtues of a reigning monarch, he chose rather to relate,
under the form of annals, the actions of the four immediate successors
of Augustus. To collect, to dispose, and to adorn a series of fourscore
years, in an immortal work, every sentence of which is pregnant with
the deepest observations and the most lively images, was an undertaking
sufficient to exercise the genius of Tacitus himself during the greatest
part of his life. In the last years of the reign of Trajan, whilst the
victorious monarch extended the power of Rome beyond its ancient limits,
the historian was describing, in the second and fourth books of his
annals, the tyranny of Tiberius; and the emperor Hadrian must have
succeeded to the throne, before Tacitus, in the regular prosecution of
his work, could relate the fire of the capital, and the cruelty of Nero
towards the unfortunate Christians. At the distance of sixty years, it
was the duty of the annalist to adopt the narratives of contemporaries;
but it was natural for the philosopher to indulge himself in the
description of the origin, the progress, and the character of the new
sect, not so much according to the knowledge or prejudices of the age
of Nero, as according to those of the time of Hadrian. 3 Tacitus very
frequently trusts to the curiosity or reflection of his readers to
supply those intermediate circumstances and ideas, which, in his extreme
conciseness, he has thought proper to suppress. We may therefore presume
to imagine some probable cause which could direct the cruelty of Nero
against the Christians of Rome, whose obscurity, as well as innocence,
should have shielded them from his indignation, and even from his
notice. The Jews, who were numerous in the capital, and oppressed in
their own country, were a much fitter object for the suspicions of the
emperor and of the people: nor did it seem unlikely that a vanquished
nation, who already discovered their abhorrence of the Roman yoke, might
have recourse to the most atrocious means of gratifying their implacable
revenge. But the Jews possessed very powerful advocates in the palace,
and even in the heart of the tyrant; his wife and mistress, the
beautiful PoppÊa, and a favorite player of the race of Abraham, who had
already employed their intercession in behalf of the obnoxious people.
In their room it was necessary to offer some other victims, and it might
easily be suggested that, although the genuine followers of Moses were
innocent of the fire of Rome, there had arisen among them a new and
pernicious sect of GalilÊans, which was capable of the most horrid
crimes. Under the appellation of GalilÊans, two distinctions of men
were confounded, the most opposite to each other in their manners
and principles; the disciples who had embraced the faith of Jesus of
Nazareth, and the zealots who had followed the standard of Judas the
Gaulonite. The former were the friends, the latter were the enemies, of
human kind; and the only resemblance between them consisted in the same
inflexible constancy, which, in the defence of their cause, rendered
them insensible of death and tortures. The followers of Judas, who
impelled their countrymen into rebellion, were soon buried under the
ruins of Jerusalem; whilst those of Jesus, known by the more celebrated
name of Christians, diffused themselves over the Roman empire. How
natural was it for Tacitus, in the time of Hadrian, to appropriate to
the Christians the guilt and the sufferings, * which he might, with far
greater truth and justice, have attributed to a sect whose odious memory
was almost extinguished! 4. Whatever opinion may be entertained of this
conjecture, (for it is no more than a conjecture,) it is evident that
the effect, as well as the cause, of Nero's persecution, was confined
to the walls of Rome, that the religious tenets of the GalilÊans or
Christians, were never made a subject of punishment, or even of inquiry;
and that, as the idea of their sufferings was for a long time connected
with the idea of cruelty and injustice, the moderation of succeeding
princes inclined them to spare a sect, oppressed by a tyrant, whose rage
had been usually directed against virtue and innocence.
It is somewhat remarkable that the flames of war consumed, almost at
the same time, the temple of Jerusalem and the Capitol of Rome; and it
appears no less singular, that the tribute which devotion had destined
to the former, should have been converted by the power of an assaulting
victor to restore and adorn the splendor of the latter. The emperors
levied a general capitation tax on the Jewish people; and although the
sum assessed on the head of each individual was inconsiderable, the use
for which it was designed, and the severity with which it was exacted,
were considered as an intolerable grievance. Since the officers of the
revenue extended their unjust claim to many persons who were strangers
to the blood or religion of the Jews, it was impossible that the
Christians, who had so often sheltered themselves under the shade of the
synagogue, should now escape this rapacious persecution. Anxious as
they were to avoid the slightest infection of idolatry, their conscience
forbade them to contribute to the honor of that dÊmon who had assumed
the character of the Capitoline Jupiter. As a very numerous though
declining party among the Christians still adhered to the law of Moses,
their efforts to dissemble their Jewish origin were detected by the
decisive test of circumcision; nor were the Roman magistrates at leisure
to inquire into the difference of their religious tenets. Among the
Christians who were brought before the tribunal of the emperor, or,
as it seems more probable, before that of the procurator of JudÊa, two
persons are said to have appeared, distinguished by their extraction,
which was more truly noble than that of the greatest monarchs. These
were the grandsons of St. Jude the apostle, who himself was the brother
of Jesus Christ. Their natural pretensions to the throne of David might
perhaps attract the respect of the people, and excite the jealousy of
the governor; but the meanness of their garb, and the simplicity of
their answers, soon convinced him that they were neither desirous
nor capable of disturbing the peace of the Roman empire. They frankly
confessed their royal origin, and their near relation to the Messiah;
but they disclaimed any temporal views, and professed that his kingdom,
which they devoutly expected, was purely of a spiritual and angelic
nature. When they were examined concerning their fortune and occupation,
they showed their hands, hardened with daily labor, and declared that
they derived their whole subsistence from the cultivation of a farm near
the village of Cocaba, of the extent of about twenty-four English acres,
and of the value of nine thousand drachms, or three hundred pounds
sterling. The grandsons of St. Jude were dismissed with compassion and
contempt.
But although the obscurity of the house of David might protect them
from the suspicions of a tyrant, the present greatness of his own
family alarmed the pusillanimous temper of Domitian, which could only be
appeased by the blood of those Romans whom he either feared, or hated,
or esteemed. Of the two sons of his uncle Flavius Sabinus, the elder was
soon convicted of treasonable intentions, and the younger, who bore
the name of Flavius Clemens, was indebted for his safety to his want
of courage and ability. The emperor for a long time, distinguished so
harmless a kinsman by his favor and protection, bestowed on him his own
niece Domitilla, adopted the children of that marriage to the hope
of the succession, and invested their father with the honors of the
consulship.
But he had scarcely finished the term of his annual magistracy, when, on
a slight pretence, he was condemned and executed; Domitilla was banished
to a desolate island on the coast of Campania; and sentences either of
death or of confiscation were pronounced against a great number of who
were involved in the same accusation. The guilt imputed to their charge
was that of Atheism and Jewish manners; a singular association of ideas,
which cannot with any propriety be applied except to the Christians, as
they were obscurely and imperfectly viewed by the magistrates and by
the writers of that period. On the strength of so probable an
interpretation, and too eagerly admitting the suspicions of a tyrant as
an evidence of their honorable crime, the church has placed both Clemens
and Domitilla among its first martyrs, and has branded the cruelty of
Domitian with the name of the second persecution. But this persecution
(if it deserves that epithet) was of no long duration. A few months
after the death of Clemens, and the banishment of Domitilla, Stephen, a
freedman belonging to the latter, who had enjoyed the favor, but who
had not surely embraced the faith, of his mistress, * assassinated
the emperor in his palace. The memory of Domitian was condemned by the
senate; his acts were rescinded; his exiles recalled; and under the
gentle administration of Nerva, while the innocent were restored to
their rank and fortunes, even the most guilty either obtained pardon or
escaped punishment.
II. About ten years afterwards, under the reign of Trajan, the younger
Pliny was intrusted by his friend and master with the government of
Bithynia and Pontus. He soon found himself at a loss to determine by
what rule of justice or of law he should direct his conduct in the
execution of an office the most repugnant to his humanity. Pliny had
never assisted at any judicial proceedings against the Christians,
with whose lame alone he seems to be acquainted; and he was totally
uninformed with regard to the nature of their guilt, the method of their
conviction, and the degree of their punishment. In this perplexity he
had recourse to his usual expedient, of submitting to the wisdom of
Trajan an impartial, and, in some respects, a favorable account of the
new superstition, requesting the emperor, that he would condescend to
resolve his doubts, and to instruct his ignorance. The life of Pliny had
been employed in the acquisition of learning, and in the business of the
world. Since the age of nineteen he had pleaded with distinction in the
tribunals of Rome, filled a place in the senate, had been invested with
the honors of the consulship, and had formed very numerous connections
with every order of men, both in Italy and in the provinces. From his
ignorance therefore we may derive some useful information. We may assure
ourselves, that when he accepted the government of Bithynia, there
were no general laws or decrees of the senate in force against the
Christians; that neither Trajan nor any of his virtuous predecessors,
whose edicts were received into the civil and criminal jurisprudence,
had publicly declared their intentions concerning the new sect; and that
whatever proceedings had been carried on against the Christians, there
were none of sufficient weight and authority to establish a precedent
for the conduct of a Roman magistrate.
Chapter XVI: Conduct Towards The Christians, From Nero To
Constantine.--Part III.
The answer of Trajan, to which the Christians of the succeeding age have
frequently appealed, discovers as much regard for justice and humanity
as could be reconciled with his mistaken notions of religious policy.
Instead of displaying the implacable zeal of an inquisitor, anxious to
discover the most minute particles of heresy, and exulting in the number
of his victims, the emperor expresses much more solicitude to protect
the security of
|
glad and
began to sing, because they were going back to Africa, their real home.
And the Doctor said,
“I shall only be able to take you three—with Jip the dog, Dab-Dab the
duck, Gub-Gub the pig and the owl, Too-Too. The rest of the animals,
like the dormice and the water-voles and the bats, they will have to
go back and live in the fields where they were born till we come home
again. But as most of them sleep through the Winter, they won’t mind
that—and besides, it wouldn’t be good for them to go to Africa.”
So then the parrot, who had been on long sea-voyages before, began
telling the Doctor all the things he would have to take with him on the
ship.
“You must have plenty of pilot-bread,” she said—“‘hard tack’ they call
it. And you must have beef in cans—and an anchor.”
“I expect the ship will have its own anchor,” said the Doctor.
“Well, make sure,” said Polynesia. “Because it’s very important. You
can’t stop if you haven’t got an anchor. And you’ll need a bell.”
“What’s that for?” asked the Doctor.
“To tell the time by,” said the parrot. “You go and ring it every
half-hour and then you know what time it is. And bring a whole lot of
rope—it always comes in handy on voyages.”
Then they began to wonder where they were going to get the money from
to buy all the things they needed.
“Oh, bother it! Money again,” cried the Doctor. “Goodness! I shall be
glad to get to Africa where we don’t have to have any! I’ll go and ask
the grocer if he will wait for his money till I get back—No, I’ll send
the sailor to ask him.”
So the sailor went to see the grocer. And presently he came back with
all the things they wanted.
Then the animals packed up; and after they had turned off the water so
the pipes wouldn’t freeze, and put up the shutters, they closed the
house and gave the key to the old horse who lived in the stable. And
when they had seen that there was plenty of hay in the loft to last the
horse through the Winter, they carried all their luggage down to the
seashore and got on to the boat.
The Cat’s-meat-Man was there to see them off; and he brought a large
suet-pudding as a present for the Doctor because, he said he had been
told, you couldn’t get suet-puddings in foreign parts.
As soon as they were on the ship, Gub-Gub, the pig, asked where the
beds were, for it was four o’clock in the afternoon and he wanted his
nap. So Polynesia took him downstairs into the inside of the ship and
showed him the beds, set all on top of one another like book-shelves
against a wall.
“Why, that isn’t a bed!” cried Gub-Gub. “That’s a shelf!”
“Beds are always like that on ships,” said the parrot. “It isn’t a
shelf. Climb up into it and go to sleep. That’s what you call ‘a bunk.’”
[Illustration: “And the voyage began”]
“I don’t think I’ll go to bed yet,” said Gub-Gub. “I’m too excited. I
want to go upstairs again and see them start.”
“Well, this is your first trip,” said Polynesia. “You will get used to
the life after a while.” And she went back up the stairs of the ship,
humming this song to herself,
I’ve seen the Black Sea and the Red Sea;
I rounded the Isle of Wight;
I discovered the Yellow River,
And the Orange too—by night.
Now Greenland drops behind again,
And I sail the ocean Blue.
I’m tired of all these colors, Jane,
So I’m coming back to you.
They were just going to start on their journey, when the Doctor said he
would have to go back and ask the sailor the way to Africa.
But the swallow said she had been to that country many times and would
show them how to get there.
So the Doctor told Chee-Chee to pull up the anchor and the voyage
began.
_THE FIFTH CHAPTER_
THE GREAT JOURNEY
NOW for six whole weeks they went sailing on and on, over the rolling
sea, following the swallow who flew before the ship to show them the
way. At night she carried a tiny lantern, so they should not miss her
in the dark; and the people on the other ships that passed said that
the light must be a shooting star.
As they sailed further and further into the South, it got warmer and
warmer. Polynesia, Chee-Chee and the crocodile enjoyed the hot sun no
end. They ran about laughing and looking over the side of the ship to
see if they could see Africa yet.
But the pig and the dog and the owl, Too-Too, could do nothing in such
weather, but sat at the end of the ship in the shade of a big barrel,
with their tongues hanging out, drinking lemonade.
Dab-Dab, the duck, used to keep herself cool by jumping into the sea
and swimming behind the ship. And every once in a while, when the top
of her head got too hot, she would dive under the ship and come up
on the other side. In this way, too, she used to catch herrings on
Tuesdays and Fridays—when everybody on the boat ate fish to make the
beef last longer.
When they got near to the Equator they saw some flying-fishes coming
towards them. And the fishes asked the parrot if this was Doctor
Dolittle’s ship. When she told them it was, they said they were glad,
because the monkeys in Africa were getting worried that he would never
come. Polynesia asked them how many miles they had yet to go; and the
flying-fishes said it was only fifty-five miles now to the coast of
Africa.
And another time a whole school of porpoises came dancing through the
waves; and they too asked Polynesia if this was the ship of the famous
doctor. And when they heard that it was, they asked the parrot if the
Doctor wanted anything for his journey.
And Polynesia said, “Yes. We have run short of onions.”
“There is an island not far from here,” said the porpoises, “where the
wild onions grow tall and strong. Keep straight on—we will get some and
catch up to you.”
So the porpoises dashed away through the sea. And very soon the parrot
saw them again, coming up behind, dragging the onions through the waves
in big nets made of seaweed.
The next evening, as the sun was going down, the Doctor said,
“Get me the telescope, Chee-Chee. Our journey is nearly ended. Very
soon we should be able to see the shores of Africa.”
And about half an hour later, sure enough, they thought they could see
something in front that might be land. But it began to get darker and
darker and they couldn’t be sure.
Then a great storm came up, with thunder and lightning. The wind
howled; the rain came down in torrents; and the waves got so high they
splashed right over the boat.
Presently there was a big BANG! The ship stopped and rolled over on its
side.
“What’s happened?” asked the Doctor, coming up from downstairs.
“I’m not sure,” said the parrot; “but I think we’re ship-wrecked. Tell
the duck to get out and see.”
So Dab-Dab dived right down under the waves. And when she came up she
said they had struck a rock; there was a big hole in the bottom of the
ship; the water was coming in; and they were sinking fast.
“We must have run into Africa,” said the Doctor. “Dear me, dear
me!—Well—we must all swim to land.”
But Chee-Chee and Gub-Gub did not know how to swim.
“Get the rope!” said Polynesia. “I told you it would come in handy.
Where’s that duck? Come here, Dab-Dab. Take this end of the rope, fly
to the shore and tie it on to a palm-tree; and we’ll hold the other
end on the ship here. Then those that can’t swim must climb along the
rope till they reach the land. That’s what you call a ‘life-line.’”
[Illustration: “‘We must have run into Africa’”]
So they all got safely to the shore—some swimming, some flying; and
those that climbed along the rope brought the Doctor’s trunk and
hand-bag with them.
But the ship was no good any more—with the big hole in the bottom; and
presently the rough sea beat it to pieces on the rocks and the timbers
floated away.
Then they all took shelter in a nice dry cave they found, high up in
the cliffs, till the storm was over.
When the sun came out next morning they went down to the sandy beach to
dry themselves.
“Dear old Africa!” sighed Polynesia. “It’s good to get back. Just
think—it’ll be a hundred and sixty-nine years to-morrow since I was
here! And it hasn’t changed a bit!—Same old palm-trees; same old red
earth; same old black ants! There’s no place like home!”
And the others noticed she had tears in her eyes—she was so pleased to
see her country once again.
Then the Doctor missed his high hat; for it had been blown into the sea
during the storm. So Dab-Dab went out to look for it. And presently she
saw it, a long way off, floating on the water like a toy-boat.
When she flew down to get it, she found one of the white mice, very
frightened, sitting inside it.
“What are you doing here?” asked the duck. “You were told to stay
behind in Puddleby.”
“I didn’t want to be left behind,” said the mouse. “I wanted to see
what Africa was like—I have relatives there. So I hid in the baggage
and was brought on to the ship with the hard-tack. When the ship sank
I was terribly frightened—because I cannot swim far. I swam as long as
I could, but I soon got all exhausted and thought I was going to sink.
And then, just at that moment, the old man’s hat came floating by; and
I got into it because I did not want to be drowned.”
So the duck took up the hat with the mouse in it and brought it to the
Doctor on the shore. And they all gathered round to have a look.
“That’s what you call a ‘stowaway,’” said the parrot.
Presently, when they were looking for a place in the trunk where the
white mouse could travel comfortably, the monkey, Chee-Chee, suddenly
said,
“Sh! I hear footsteps in the jungle!”
They all stopped talking and listened. And soon a black man came down
out of the woods and asked them what they were doing there.
[Illustration: “‘I got into it because I did not want to be drowned’”]
“My name is John Dolittle—M.D.,” said the Doctor. “I have been asked to
come to Africa to cure the monkeys who are sick.”
“You must all come before the King,” said the black man.
“What king?” asked the Doctor, who didn’t want to waste any time.
“The King of the Jolliginki,” the man answered. “All these lands belong
to him; and all strangers must be brought before him. Follow me.”
So they gathered up their baggage and went off, following the man
through the jungle.
_THE SIXTH CHAPTER_
POLYNESIA AND THE KING
WHEN they had gone a little way through the thick forest, they came to
a wide, clear space; and they saw the King’s palace which was made of
mud.
This was where the King lived with his Queen, Ermintrude, and their
son, Prince Bumpo. The Prince was away fishing for salmon in the river.
But the King and Queen were sitting under an umbrella before the palace
door. And Queen Ermintrude was asleep.
When the Doctor had come up to the palace the King asked him his
business; and the Doctor told him why he had come to Africa.
“You may not travel through my lands,” said the King. “Many years ago a
white man came to these shores; and I was very kind to him. But after
he had dug holes in the ground to get the gold, and killed all the
elephants to get their ivory tusks, he went away secretly in his ship—
without so much as saying ‘Thank you.’ Never again shall a white man
travel through the lands of Jolliginki.”
[Illustration: “And Queen Ermintrude was asleep”]
Then the King turned to some of the black men who were standing near
and said, “Take away this medicine-man—with all his animals, and lock
them up in my strongest prison.”
So six of the black men led the Doctor and all his pets away and shut
them up in a stone dungeon. The dungeon had only one little window,
high up in the wall, with bars in it; and the door was strong and thick.
Then they all grew very sad; and Gub-Gub, the pig, began to cry. But
Chee-Chee said he would spank him if he didn’t stop that horrible
noise; and he kept quiet.
“Are we all here?” asked the Doctor, after he had got used to the dim
light.
“Yes, I think so,” said the duck and started to count them.
“Where’s Polynesia?” asked the crocodile. “She isn’t here.”
“Are you sure?” said the Doctor. “Look again. Polynesia! Polynesia!
Where are you?”
“I suppose she escaped,” grumbled the crocodile. “Well, that’s just
like her!—Sneaked off into the jungle as soon as her friends got into
trouble.”
“I’m not that kind of a bird,” said the parrot, climbing out of the
pocket in the tail of the Doctor’s coat. “You see, I’m small enough
to get through the bars of that window; and I was afraid they would
put me in a cage instead. So while the King was busy talking, I hid in
the Doctor’s pocket—and here I am! That’s what you call a ‘ruse,’” she
said, smoothing down her feathers with her beak.
“Good Gracious!” cried the Doctor. “You’re lucky I didn’t sit on you.”
“Now listen,” said Polynesia, “to-night, as soon as it gets dark, I
am going to creep through the bars of that window and fly over to the
palace. And then—you’ll see—I’ll soon find a way to make the King let
us all out of prison.”
“Oh, what can _you_ do?” said Gub-Gub, turning up his nose and
beginning to cry again. “You’re only a bird!”
“Quite true,” said the parrot. “But do not forget that although I am
only a bird, _I can talk like a man_—and I know these darkies.”
So that night, when the moon was shining through the palm-trees and
all the King’s men were asleep, the parrot slipped out through the
bars of the prison and flew across to the palace. The pantry window had
been broken by a tennis ball the week before; and Polynesia popped in
through the hole in the glass.
She heard Prince Bumpo snoring in his bedroom at the back of the
palace. Then she tip-toed up the stairs till she came to the King’s
bedroom. She opened the door gently and peeped in.
The Queen was away at a dance that night at her cousin’s; but the King
was in bed fast asleep.
Polynesia crept in, very softly, and got under the bed.
Then she coughed—just the way Doctor Dolittle used to cough. Polynesia
could mimic any one.
The King opened his eyes and said sleepily: “Is that you, Ermintrude?”
(He thought it was the Queen come back from the dance.)
Then the parrot coughed again—loud, like a man. And the King sat up,
wide awake, and said, “Who’s that?”
“I am Doctor Dolittle,” said the parrot—just the way the Doctor would
have said it.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” cried the King. “How dare you get
out of prison! Where are you?—I don’t see you.”
[Illustration: “‘Who’s that?’”]
But the parrot just laughed—a long, deep* jolly laugh, like the
Doctor’s.
“Stop laughing and come here at once, so I can see you,” said the King.
“Foolish King!” answered Polynesia. “Have you forgotten that you
are talking to John Dolittle, M.D.—the most wonderful man on earth?
Of course you cannot see me. I have made myself invisible. There is
nothing I cannot do. Now listen: I have come here to-night to warn
you. If you don’t let me and my animals travel through your kingdom,
I will make you and all your people sick like the monkeys. For I can
make people well: and I can make people ill—just by raising my little
finger. Send your soldiers at once to open the dungeon door, or you
shall have mumps before the morning sun has risen on the hills of
Jolliginki.”
Then the King began to tremble and was very much afraid.
“Doctor,” he cried, “it shall be as you say. Do not raise your little
finger, please!” And he jumped out of bed and ran to tell the soldiers
to open the prison door.
As soon as he was gone, Polynesia crept downstairs and left the palace
by the pantry window.
But the Queen, who was just letting herself in at the backdoor with a
latch-key, saw the parrot getting out through the broken glass. And
when the King came back to bed she told him what she had seen.
Then the King understood that he had been tricked, and he was
dreadfully angry. He hurried back to the prison at once.
But he was too late. The door stood open. The dungeon was empty. The
Doctor and all his animals were gone.
_THE SEVENTH CHAPTER_
THE BRIDGE OF APES
QUEEN ERMINTRUDE had never in her life seen her husband so terrible as
he got that night. He gnashed his teeth with rage. He called everybody
a fool. He threw his tooth-brush at the palace cat. He rushed round in
his night-shirt and woke up all his army and sent them into the jungle
to catch the Doctor. Then he made all his servants go too—his cooks and
his gardeners and his barber and Prince Bumpo’s tutor—even the Queen,
who was tired from dancing in a pair of tight shoes, was packed off to
help the soldiers in their search.
All this time the Doctor and his animals were running through the
forest towards the Land of the Monkeys as fast as they could go.
Gub-Gub, with his short legs, soon got tired; and the Doctor had to
carry him—which made it pretty hard when they had the trunk and the
hand-bag with them as well.
The King of the Jolliginki thought it would be easy for his army to
find them, because the Doctor was in a strange land and would not know
his way. But he was wrong; because the monkey, Chee-Chee, knew all the
paths through the jungle—better even than the King’s men did. And he
led the Doctor and his pets to the very thickest part of the forest—a
place where no man had ever been before—and hid them all in a big
hollow tree between high rocks.
“We had better wait here,” said Chee-Chee, “till the soldiers have gone
back to bed. Then we can go on into the Land of the Monkeys.”
So there they stayed the whole night through.
They often heard the King’s men searching and talking in the jungle
round about. But they were quite safe, for no one knew of that
hiding-place but Chee-Chee—not even the other monkeys.
At last, when daylight began to come through the thick leaves overhead,
they heard Queen Ermintrude saying in a very tired voice that it was
no use looking any more—that they might as well go back and get some
sleep.
As soon as the soldiers had all gone home, Chee-Chee brought the Doctor
and his animals out of the hiding-place and they set off for the Land
of the Monkeys.
It was a long, long way; and they often got very tired—especially
Gub-Gub. But when he cried they gave him milk out of the cocoanuts,
which he was very fond of.
They always had plenty to eat and drink; because Chee-Chee and
Polynesia knew all the different kinds of fruits and vegetables that
grow in the jungle, and where to find them—like dates and figs and
ground-nuts and ginger and yams. They used to make their lemonade out
of the juice of wild oranges, sweetened with honey which they got from
the bees’ nests in hollow trees. No matter what it was they asked for,
Chee-Chee and Polynesia always seemed to be able to get it for them—or
something like it. They even got the Doctor some tobacco one day, when
he had finished what he had brought with him and wanted to smoke.
At night they slept in tents made of palm-leaves, on thick, soft beds
of dried grass. And after a while they got used to walking such a lot
and did not get so tired and enjoyed the life of travel very much.
But they were always glad when the night came and they stopped for
their resting-time. Then the Doctor used to make a little fire of
sticks; and after they had had their supper, they would sit round it
in a ring, listening to Polynesia singing songs about the sea, or to
Chee-Chee telling stories of the jungle.
And many of the tales that Chee-Chee told were very interesting.
Because although the monkeys had no history-books of their own before
Doctor Dolittle came to write them for them, they remember everything
that happens by telling stories to their children. And Chee-Chee spoke
of many things his grandmother had told him—tales of long, long,
long ago, before Noah and the Flood,—of the days when men dressed in
bear-skins and lived in holes in the rock and ate their mutton raw,
because they did not know what cooking was—having never seen a fire.
And he told them of the Great Mammoths and Lizards, as long as a train,
that wandered over the mountains in those times, nibbling from the
tree-tops. And often they got so interested listening, that when he
had finished they found their fire had gone right out; and they had to
scurry round to get more sticks and build a new one.
Now when the King’s army had gone back and told the King that they
couldn’t find the Doctor, the King sent them out again and told them
they must stay in the jungle till they caught him. So all this time,
while the Doctor and his animals were going along towards the Land of
the Monkeys, thinking themselves quite safe, they were still being
followed by the King’s men. If Chee-Chee had known this, he would most
likely have hidden them again. But he didn’t know it.
One day Chee-Chee climbed up a high rock and looked out over the
tree-tops. And when he came down he said they were now quite close to
the Land of the Monkeys and would soon be there.
And that same evening, sure enough, they saw Chee-Chee’s cousin and a
lot of other monkeys, who had not yet got sick, sitting in the trees by
the edge of a swamp, looking and waiting for them. And when they saw
the famous doctor really come, these monkeys made a tremendous noise,
cheering and waving leaves and swinging out of the branches to greet
him.
They wanted to carry his bag and his trunk and everything he had—and
one of the bigger ones even carried Gub-Gub who had got tired again.
Then two of them rushed on in front to tell the sick monkeys that the
great doctor had come at last.
But the King’s men, who were still following, had heard the noise of
the monkeys cheering; and they at last knew where the Doctor was, and
hastened on to catch him.
The big monkey carrying Gub-Gub was coming along behind slowly, and he
saw the Captain of the army sneaking through the trees. So he hurried
after the Doctor and told him to run.
[Illustration: “Cheering and waving leaves and swinging out of the
branches to greet him”]
Then they all ran harder than they had ever run in their lives; and
the King’s men, coming after them, began to run too; and the Captain
ran hardest of all.
Then the Doctor tripped over his medicine-bag and fell down in the mud,
and the Captain thought he would surely catch him this time.
But the Captain had very long ears—though his hair was very short. And
as he sprang forward to take hold of the Doctor, one of his ears caught
fast in a tree; and the rest of the army had to stop and help him.
By this time the Doctor had picked himself up, and on they went again,
running and running. And Chee-Chee shouted,
“It’s all right! We haven’t far to go now!”
But before they could get into the Land of the Monkeys, they came to a
steep cliff with a river flowing below. This was the end of the Kingdom
of Jolliginki; and the Land of the Monkeys was on the other side—across
the river.
And Jip, the dog, looked down over the edge of the steep, steep cliff
and said,
“Golly! How are we ever going to get across?”
“Oh, dear!” said Gub-Gub. “The King’s men are quite close now—Look at
them! I am afraid we are going to be taken back to prison again.” And
he began to weep.
But the big monkey who was carrying the pig dropped him on the ground
and cried out to the other monkeys,
“Boys—a bridge! Quick!—Make a bridge! We’ve only a minute to do it.
They’ve got the Captain loose, and he’s coming on like a deer. Get
lively! A bridge! A bridge!”
The Doctor began to wonder what they were going to make a bridge out
of, and he gazed around to see if they had any boards hidden any place.
But when he looked back at the cliff, there, hanging across the river,
was a bridge all ready for him—made of living monkeys! For while his
back was turned, the monkeys—quick as a flash—had made themselves into
a bridge, just by holding hands and feet.
And the big one shouted to the Doctor, “Walk over! Walk over—all of
you—hurry!”
Gub-Gub was a bit scared, walking on such a narrow bridge at that dizzy
height above the river. But he got over all right; and so did all of
them.
John Dolittle was the last to cross. And just as he was getting to the
other side, the King’s men came rushing up to the edge of the cliff.
Then they shook their fists and yelled with rage. For they saw they
were too late. The Doctor and all his animals were safe in the Land of
the Monkeys and the bridge was pulled across to the other side.
Then Chee-Chee turned to the Doctor and said,
“Many great explorers and gray-bearded naturalists have lain long weeks
hidden in the jungle waiting to see the monkeys do that trick. But we
never let a white man get a glimpse of it before. You are the first to
see the famous ‘Bridge of Apes.’”
And the Doctor felt very pleased.
[Illustration: “John Dolittle was the last to cross”]
_THE EIGHTH CHAPTER_
THE LEADER OF THE LIONS
JOHN DOLITTLE now became dreadfully, awfully busy. He found hundreds
and thousands of monkeys sick—gorillas, orang-outangs, chimpanzees,
dog-faced baboons, marmosettes, gray monkeys, red ones—all kinds. And
many had died.
The first thing he did was to separate the sick ones from the well
ones. Then he got Chee-Chee and his cousin to build him a little house
of grass. The next thing: he made all the monkeys who were still well
come and be vaccinated.
And for three days and three nights the monkeys kept coming from
the jungles and the valleys and the hills to the little house of
grass, where the Doctor sat all day and all night, vaccinating and
vaccinating.
[Illustration: “He made all the monkeys who were still well come and be
vaccinated”]
Then he had another house made—a big one, with a lot of beds in it; and
he put all the sick ones in this house.
But so many were sick, there were not enough well ones to do the
nursing. So he sent messages to the other animals, like the lions and
the leopards and the antelopes, to come and help with the nursing.
But the Leader of the Lions was a very proud creature. And when he came
to the Doctor’s big house full of beds he seemed angry and scornful.
“Do you dare to ask me, Sir?” he said, glaring at the Doctor. “Do you
dare to ask me—_ME, the King of Beasts_, to wait on a lot of dirty
monkeys? Why, I wouldn’t even eat them between meals!”
Although the lion looked very terrible, the Doctor tried hard not to
seem afraid of him.
“I didn’t ask you to eat them,” he said quietly. “And besides, they’re
not dirty. They’ve all had a bath this morning. _Your_ coat looks
as though it needed brushing—badly. Now listen, and I’ll tell you
something: the day may come when the lions get sick. And if you don’t
help the other animals now, the lions may find themselves left all
alone when _they_ are in trouble. That often happens to proud people.”
[Illustration: “‘_ME, the King of Beasts_, to wait on a lot of dirty
monkeys?’”]
“The lions are never _in_ trouble—they only _make_ trouble,” said the
Leader, turning up his nose. And he stalked away into the jungle,
feeling he had been rather smart and clever.
Then the leopards got proud too and said they wouldn’t help. And then
of course the antelopes—although they were too shy and timid to be
rude to the Doctor like the lion—_they_ pawed the ground, and smiled
foolishly, and said they had never been nurses before.
And now the poor Doctor was worried frantic, wondering where he could
get help enough to take care of all these thousands of monkeys in bed.
But the Leader of the Lions, when he got back to his den, saw his wife,
the Queen Lioness, come running out to meet him with her hair untidy.
“One of the cubs won’t eat,” she said. “I don’t know _what_ to do with
him. He hasn’t taken a thing since last night.”
And she began to cry and shake with nervousness—for she was a good
mother, even though she was a lioness.
So the Leader went into his den and looked at his children—two very
cunning little cubs, lying on the floor. And one of them seemed quite
poorly.
Then the lion told his wife, quite proudly, just what he had said to
the Doctor. And she got so angry she nearly drove him out of the den.
“You never _did_ have a grain of sense!” she screamed. “All the animals
from here to the Indian Ocean are talking about this wonderful man,
and how he can cure any kind of sickness, and how kind he is—the only
man in the whole world who can talk the language of the animals! And
now, _now_—when we have a sick baby on our hands, you must go and
offend him! You great booby! Nobody but a fool is ever rude to a _good_
doctor. You—,” and she started pulling her husband’s hair.
“Go back to that white man at once,” she yelled, “and tell him you’re
sorry. And take all the other empty-headed lions with you—and those
stupid leopards and antelopes. Then do everything the Doctor tells you.
Work like niggers! And perhaps he will be kind enough to come and see
the cub later. Now be off!—_Hurry_, I tell you! You’re not fit to be a
father!”
And she went into the den next door, where another mother-lion lived,
and told her all about it.
So the Leader of the Lions went back to the Doctor and said, “I
happened to be passing this way and thought I’d look in. Got any help
yet?”
“No,” said the Doctor. “I haven’t. And I’m dreadfully worried.”
“Help’s pretty hard to get these days,” said the lion. “Animals don’t
seem to want to work any more. You can’t blame them—in a way.... Well,
seeing you’re in difficulties, I don’t mind doing what I can—just to
oblige you—so long as I don’t have to wash the creatures. And I have
told all the other hunting animals to come and do their share. The
leopards should be here any minute now.... Oh, and by the way, we’ve
got a sick cub at home. I don’t think there’s much the matter with
him myself. But the wife is anxious. If you are around that way this
evening, you might take a look at him, will you?”
Then the Doctor was very happy; for all the lions and the leopards and
the antelopes and the giraffes and the zebras—all the animals of the
forests and the mountains and the plains—came to help him in his work.
There were so many of them that he had to send some away, and only kept
the cleverest.
And now very soon the monkeys began to get better. At the end of a
week the big house full of beds were half empty. And at the end of the
second week the last monkey had got well.
Then the Doctor’s work was done; and he was so tired he went to bed and
slept for three days without even turning over.
_THE NINTH CHAPTER_
THE MONKEYS’ COUNCIL
CHEE-CHEE stood outside the Doctor’s door, keeping everybody away till
he woke up. Then John Dolittle told the monkeys that he must now go
back to Puddleby.
They were very surprised at this; for they had thought that he was
going to stay with them forever. And that night all the monkeys got
together in the jungle to talk it over.
And the Chief Chimpanzee rose up and said,
“Why is it the good man is going away? Is he not happy here with us?”
But none of them could answer him.
Then the Grand Gorilla got up and said,
“I think we all should go to him and ask him to stay. Perhaps if
we make him a new house and a bigger bed, and promise him plenty
of monkey-servants to work for him and to make life pleasant for
him—perhaps then he will not wish to go.”
Then Chee-Chee got up; and all the others whispered, “Sh! Look!
Chee-Chee, the great Traveler, is about to speak!”
And Chee-Chee said to the other monkeys,
“My friends, I am afraid it is useless to ask the Doctor to stay. He
owes money in Puddleby; and he says he must go back and pay it.”
And the monkeys asked him, “What is _money_?”
[Illustration: “Then the Grand Gorilla got up”]
Then Chee-Chee told them that in the Land of the White Men you could
get nothing without money; you could _do_ nothing without money—that
it was almost impossible to _live_ without money.
And some of them asked, “But can you not even eat and drink without
paying?”
But Chee-Chee shook his head. And then he told them that even he, when
he was with the organ-grinder, had been made to ask the children for
money.
And the Chief Chimpanzee turned to the Oldest Orang-outang and said,
“Cousin, surely these Men be strange creatures! Who would wish to live
in such a land? My gracious, how paltry!”
Then Chee-Chee said,
“When we were coming to you we had no boat to cross the sea in and
no money to buy food to eat on our journey. So a man lent us some
biscuits; and we said we would pay him when we came back. And we
borrowed a boat from a sailor; but it was broken on the rocks when we
reached the shores of
|
with what we have
named the brain of insects, from which the nervous chord dips to
the lower part of the neck, where it forms a _second_ ganglion,
which appears to correspond with what we have considered as their
second ganglion[113]. We may observe, however, that at least in
one respect there is even an _external_ resemblance between the
brain of insects and that of vertebrate animals:--it most commonly
consists, as has been stated, like them, of two lobes, often very
distinct; a circumstance which not unfrequently distinguishes the
other ganglions[114], and is not borrowed from the ganglions of
the great sympathetics. With respect to the internal structure
of the ganglions and spinal marrow of insects, we know little to
build any theory upon, except that the internal substance of the
former is filled with air-vessels; at least so Lyonet, as has been
already observed, found in the goat-moth, while only the tunics of
the latter are covered by them. Taking the above resemblance to the
brain of vertebrates into consideration, there appears ground for
thinking that the nervous system of insects, like some of their
articulations[115], is of a _mixed_ kind, combining in it both the
cerebro-spinal and the ganglionic systems; and this will appear
further if we consider its _functions_.
That learned and acute physiologist Dr. Virey, assuming as an
hypothesis, that the structure of the system in question is simply
ganglionic, and merely analogous to the sympathetic system of
vertebrate animals, has built a theory upon the assumption, which
appears evidently contradicted by facts. Because, as he conceives
after Cuvier, insects are not gifted with a real brain and spinal
marrow, he would make it a necessary consequence that they have no
degree of _intellect_, no memory, judgement or free will; but are
guided in every respect by instinct and spontaneous impulses,--that
they are incapable of instruction, and can superadd no acquired
habits to those which are instinctive and inbred[116]. This
consequence would certainly necessarily follow, was their nervous
system perfectly analogous to the sympathetic of warm-blooded
animals. But when we come to take into consideration the _functions_
that in insects this system confessedly discharges, we are led to
doubt very strongly the correctness of the assumption. Now in these
animals the system in question not only renders to the nutritive and
reproductive organs, which is the principal function of the great
sympathetic nerves in the vertebrates; but by the common organs
maintains a connexion with the external world, and acquires ideas
of things without, which in them is a function of the cerebral
system: from the same centre also issue those powers which at the
bidding of the will put the limbs in action, which also belongs to
the cerebral system. That insects have memory, and consequently a
real brain, has been before largely proved, as also that they have
that degree of intellect and judgement which enables them to profit
by the notices furnished by their senses[117]. What can be the use
of eyes,--of the senses of hearing, smelling, feeling, &c. if they
are not instructed by them what to choose and what to avoid? And
if they _are_ thus instructed--they must have sufficient intellect
to apprehend it, and a portion of free will to enable them to act
according to it. With regard to the assertion that they are incapable
of instruction, or of acquiring new habits; few or no experiments
have been tried with the express purpose of ascertaining this point:
but some well-authenticated facts are related, from which it seems to
result that insects may be taught some things, and acquire habits not
instinctive. They could scarcely be brought from their wild state,
and domesticated, as bees have been so universally, and both ants
and wasps occasionally[118], without some departure from the habits
of their wild state; and the fact of the corsair-bees, that acquire
predatory habits before described[119], shows this more evidently:
but one of the most remarkable stories to our purpose upon record,
is that of M. Pelisson, who, when he was confined in the Bastile,
tamed a spider, and taught it to come for food at the sound of an
instrument. A manufacturer also in Paris, fed 800 spiders in an
apartment, which became so tame that whenever he entered it, which he
usually did bringing a dish filled with flies but not always, they
immediately came down to him to receive their food[120].
All these circumstances having their due consideration and weight,
it seems, I think, most probable, that as insects have their
communication with the external world by means of certain organs in
connexion with their nervous system, and appear to have some degree
of intellect, memory, and free will, all of which in the higher
animals are functions of a cerebral system, and at the same time in
other respects manifest those which are peculiar to the sympathetic
system,--it is most probable, I say, as was above hinted, that in
their system _both_ are _united_.
I must bespeak your attention to a circumstance connected with the
subject of this letter, which merits particular consideration: I
mean the gradual change that takes place in the nervous system
when insects undergo their metamorphoses; so that, except in the
_Orthoptera_, _Hemiptera_, and _Neuroptera_ Orders, in which no
change is undergone, the number of ganglions of the spinal chord is
less in the imago than in the larva. There seems an exception indeed
to this rule in the case of the rhinoceros-beetle, in the larva of
which there is only _one_ ganglion, while in the imago there are
_four_[121]. But as this one ganglion occupies the whole spinal
marrow, it is really of greater extent than the four of the imago;
so that even in this case there is a concentration of the cerebral
pulp. In some cases, as in _Dytiscus marginalis_, and _Hydrophilus
piceus_[122], the imago has only _one_ ganglion less than the larva,
but more generally it loses _four_ or _five_. Dr. Herold has traced
the gradual changes that take place in the spinal marrow of the
common cabbage-butterfly (_Pontia Brassicæ_), from the time that it
has attained its full size to its assumption of the imago. Of these I
shall now give you some account.
In the full-grown caterpillar, besides the brain there are _eleven_
ganglions, the chords of the four first internodes being double, and
the rest single: from each ganglion proceed two pairs of nerves, one
from each side. In this the lobes of the brain form an angle with
each other[123]. In two days the double chords mutually recede, so
as to diminish the interval between the ganglions, and the single
ones have become curved: thus the length of the spinal marrow is
shortened about a _fourth_, and the fourth and fifth ganglions
have made an approach to each other[124]. On the eighth day, when
the insect has assumed the pupa but remains still in the skin of
the caterpillar, the flexure of the internodes is much increased;
the first ganglion is now united to the brain, and the fourth and
fifth have joined each other, though they are still distinct; the
spinal marrow has now lost considerably more than a _third_ of
its length[125]. On the fourteenth day, the internodes, except the
double ones, have become nearly straight again; the fourth and
fifth ganglions have coalesced so as to form one, and the sixth and
seventh have each lost their pairs of nerves[126]. Shortly after
this, these last ganglions have nearly disappeared, and the chords
of the three first internodes have again approached each other[127].
The next change exhibited is the absorption of the first ganglion by
the brain, the union of the chords of the first internode, which is
now straight, the approximation of the second and third ganglions,
and the enlargement of the one formed by the union of the fourth
and fifth, at the expense perhaps of the sixth and seventh, which
have now intirely disappeared, and in their place is a very long
internode. These united ganglions retain the pairs of nerves they
had when separate[128]. Just before the assumption of the _imago_,
the direction of the lobes of the brain becomes horizontal, the
second and third ganglions unite, and the internode between the third
and fourth is shortened[129]. Lastly, when the animal is become a
butterfly, the second and third ganglions have coalesced, and are
joined to that formed by the union of the fourth and fifth; a short
isthmus or rather constriction, with an orifice, being their only
separation: each of these united ganglions send forth laterally four
pairs of nerves[130]. In his figure, Dr. Herold has not represented
the orifice for the passage of the gullet, but doubtless one exists,
which for an animal that imbibes only fluid food is probably very
minute. In _Hypogymna dispar_, we learn from Cuvier, this orifice is
of that description, and of a triangular shape[131].
It can admit of no reasonable doubt that one of the principal
intentions of these changes is to accommodate the nervous system to
the altered functions of the animal in its new stage of existence,
in which the antennæ, eyes, and other organs of the senses, as well
as the limbs and muscles moving them, and the sexual organs, being
very different from those of the larva, and if not wholly new, yet
expanded from minute germs to their full size, may well demand
corresponding changes in the structure of the nervous system by which
they are acted upon.
But are these changes also concerned, as Dr. Virey conjectures,
in producing that remarkable alteration which usually takes place
between the _instincts_ of the larva and imago? In order to answer
this question, it will be requisite first to quote the ingenious
illustration with which this able physiologist elucidates his ideas
on this point. "The more readily," he observes, "to comprehend
the action of instinct, let us compare the insect to one of those
hand-organs in which a revolving cylinder presents different tunes
noted at its surface, and pressing the keys of the pipes of the
organ, gives birth to all the tones of a song: if the tune is to
be changed, the cylinder must be pulled out or pushed in one or
more notches, to present other notes to the keys. In the same
manner let us suppose that nature has impressed or engraved certain
determinations or notes of action, fixed in a determinate series
in the nervous system and the ganglions of the caterpillar, by
which alone she lives, she will act according to a certain sequence
of operations; and, so to speak, she will sing the air engraven
within her. When she undergoes her metamorphosis into a butterfly,
her nervous system being, if I may so express myself, pulled out a
notch, like the cylinder, will present the notes of another tune,
another series of instinctive operations; and the animal will even
find itself as perfectly instructed and as capable of employing its
new organs, as it was to use the old ones. The relations will be the
same; it will always be the play of the instrument[132]."
This illustration is doubtless at the first glance very striking and
plausible: but a closer examination will, I think, show, that, as
in so many other instances in metaphysical reasoning, when fanciful
analogies are substituted for a rigid adherence to stubborn facts, it
is satisfactory only on a superficial view, and will not stand the test
of investigation; and as this is a question intimately connected with
what I have advanced on the subject of instinct in a former letter, I
must be permitted to go somewhat into detail in considering it.
To prove his position, Dr. Virey ought at least to be able to show
that, whenever a change takes place in the instincts of insects in
their different states of larva and imago, a corresponding change
takes place in the external structure of the nervous chord. But what
are the facts? In three whole orders, viz. _Orthoptera Hemiptera_,
and _Neuroptera_, as mentioned above[133], the structure of the
nervous chord is _not_ changed; and yet we know that many tribes
of these orders acquire instincts in their imago state altogether
different from those which directed them in their state of larvæ. A
perfect _Locust_, for instance, acquires the new instincts of using
its wings; of undertaking those distant migrations of which so many
remarkable instances were laid before you in a former letter[134];
and, if a female, of depositing its eggs in an appropriate situation.
But if such striking changes in the instinct of these tribes can be
effected without any perceptible alteration in the structure of the
nervous chord, it is contrary to the received rules of philosophical
induction to refer to this alteration the changes in the instincts of
other tribes where it is found. Is it not far more probable that this
alteration has in fact no connexion with the changes of instinct,
but is solely concerned with those remarkable changes in the organs
of sense and motion, which occur in the larva and imago states
of the orders in which it is observed? In a common caterpillar,
the form of the body, the legs, the eyes, and other organs of the
senses, all strikingly differ from those of the imago; whereas, with
the exception of the acquisition of new wings, a perfect locust
differs little from its larva: so that we may reasonably expect a
corresponding change, such as we find it, in the structure of the
nervous chord of the lepidopterous insect, not called for in that of
the neuropterous species, in which accordingly it does not take place.
This reasoning, in opposition to Dr. Virey's theory, that the changes
of instinct depend on the altered structure of the nervous system,
becomes greatly strengthened when we advert to the higher classes of
animals, which surely in any investigation of the nature of instinct
ought to be closely kept in view; for the faculty, though often less
perfect in them than in insects, is still of the _same kind_, and may
consequently be expected to follow the same general laws. In a young
swallow, for example, all its instincts are not developed at once any
more than in an insect. The instinct which leads it to migrate does
not appear for some months after its birth, and that of building a
nest still later. But we have not the slightest ground for believing
that these new instincts are preceded by any change in the structure
of the great sympathetic nerve, or of any other portion of the
nervous system: and the same may be said as to the sexual instincts
developed in quadrupeds some years subsequent to their birth. If,
then, these remarkable changes in the instinct of the higher classes
of animals can take place independently of any visible change in the
nerves, what substantial reason can be assigned why they may not also
in the class of insects?
On the whole, I think you will agree with me, that there is nothing
in Dr. Virey's hypothesis which should lead me to alter the opinion
I have already so strongly expressed in a former letter[135],
as to the insufficiency of the mechanical theories of instinct
hitherto promulgated, adequately to explain _all_ the phenomena;
and unless they do this they are evidently of small value. Such
theories as I have there adverted to may often seem to be supported
by a few insulated facts, but with others, far more numerous, they
are utterly at variance; and, to omit many other instances, I am
strongly inclined to doubt the possibility of satisfactorily
explaining the _variety_ of instincts exercised by a bee[136], or the
_extraordinary_ development of new ones in particular circumstances
only[137], on any merely mechanical grounds.
And after all, even suppose it could be demonstratively shown that
_every_ instinct is as clearly dependent on secondary causes, as I have
formerly admitted that _some_ doubtless seem to be, yet what would
this teach us as to the essential nature of instinct? We have advanced
indeed a step; but still, as I have before observed in referring to the
theories of Brown and Tucker, we have only placed the world upon the
tortoise, and instinct, as to its _essence_, which is what we want to
detect, is as mysterious as ever: just as, though we can clearly prove
that the mind is acted upon by the senses, yet this throws no light
upon the essential nature of the mind, which we are forced to admit
is inscrutable, as if to teach us humility, and prevent our vainly
fancying, that though allowed to discover some of the arcana of nature,
we shall ever be able to penetrate into her inmost sanctuaries.
That Dr. Virey should regard instinct in insects as purely mechanical
was the natural consequence of his denying them any portion of
intellect; but his opinion cannot I think be consistently assented
to, if it be the fact, as I have just shown[138], that they are not
wholly devoid of the intellectual principle. Whatever is merely
mechanical, must, under similar circumstances, always act precisely
in the same way. An automaton once constructed, whilst its machinery
remains in order, will invariably perform the same actions; and Des
Cartes, when he had constructed his celebrated female automaton,
imagined that he had irrefragably proved his principle, that brutes
are mere machines. But if, instead of losing himself in the wilds
of metaphysical speculation, he had soberly attended to facts, he
would have seen that the instinct of animals can be modified and
counteracted by their intellect, and consequently cannot be regarded
as simply mechanical. Though the instinctive impulse of an empty
stomach powerfully impel a dog to gratify his appetite, yet, if
he be well tutored, the fear of correction will make him abstain
from the most tempting dainties: and in like manner a bee will quit
the nectary of a flower, however amply replenished with sweets, if
alarmed by any interruption. The ants on which Buonaparte amused
himself with experiments at St. Helena, though they stormed his
sugar-basin when defended by a fosse of water, controlled their
instinct and desisted when it was surrounded with vinegar[139]: and
in the remarkable instance communicated to Dr. Leach by Sir Joseph
Banks, the instinct of a crippled spider so completely changed,
that from a sedentary web-weaver it became a hunter[140]. There is
evidently, therefore, no analogy between actions strictly mechanical
and instincts, which, though they may often seem to be excited by
mechanical causes, are liable to be restrained or modified by the
connexion of the instinctive and intellectual faculties[141]; and
while we are ignorant how this connexion takes place, it is obviously
impossible to reason logically on the subject.
In thus denying that any existing _mechanical_ theory of instinct
is satisfactory, I by no means intend to assert that instinct is
purely _intellectual_. I have already given you my opinion[142],
that it is not the effect of any immediate agency of the Deity; nor
am I prepared to assent to the doctrine of a writer, who has in some
respects written ably on the subject in question, who says, that "the
Divine Energy does in reality act not _immediately_, but _mediately_,
or through the medium of _moral_ and _intellectual influences_ upon
the nature or consciousness of the creature, in the production of
the various, and in many instances truly wonderful, actions which
they perform[143]." The same objection applies to this as to so many
other metaphysical theories, that it is not adequately supported by
_facts_; and all theories not so supported are injurious to science
in proportion as their plausibility is greater, by leading the
student to relax in that observation of nature and attentive study
of the instincts of animals, on which alone sound hypothesis on this
subject can be ultimately founded.
I shall conclude these remarks on the nature of instinct with a few
observations as to the circumstances in which insects may be supposed
to be guided by this faculty, and those in which _intellect_ seems
to direct them. The bee, when it takes its flight to a field where
flowers abound, is governed by intellect in the use of its senses;
for these are given to it as _guides_: and when it arrives there,
they direct it to the flowers, and enable it to ascertain which
contains the treasures it is in search of; but having made this
discovery, its instinct teaches it to imbibe the nectar and load its
hind legs with pollen.--Again: its senses, aided by memory, enable
it to retrace its way to the hive, where instinct once more impels
it in its various operations. So that when we ascribe a certain
degree of intellect to these animals, we do not place them upon a
par with man; since all the most wonderful parts of their economy,
and those manipulations that exceed all our powers, we admit not
to be the contrivance of the animals themselves, but the necessary
results of faculties implanted in their constitution at the first
creation by their MAKER. I may further repeat, that the mere fact of
being endowed with the external organs of sense, proves a certain
degree of intellect in insects. For if in all their actions they were
directed merely by their instinct, they might do as well without
sight, hearing, smell, touch, &c. but having these senses and their
organs, it seems to me a necessary consequence, that they must have a
sufficient degree of intellect, memory, and judgement, to enable them
advantageously to employ them.
There is this difference between intellect in man, and the rest of
the animal creation. Their intellect teaches them to follow the lead
of their senses, and make such use of the external world as their
appetites or instincts incline them to,--and _this is their wisdom_;
while the intellect of man, being associated with an immortal
principle, and being in connexion with a world above that which his
senses reveal to him, can, by aid derived from heaven, control those
senses, and bring under his instinctive appetites, so as to render
them obedient to the το ἡγεμονικον, or governing power of his nature:
AND THIS IS HIS WISDOM.
I am, &c.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Το Ἡγεμονικον.
[2] See Hooper's _Medical Dictionary_, under _Nervous Fluid_, and Mr.
Sandwith's useful _Introduction to Anatomy and Physiology_, 83.
[3] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xvi. 305--.
[4] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 362. Compare MacLeay _Hor. Entomolog._ 215--.
[5] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ _ubi. supr._
[6] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 360. MacLeay _Hor. Ent._ 201.
[7] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xvi. 306. MacLeay _Hor. Ent._ 200--.
[8] _Ibid._ 307. The great sympathetic nerves in _fishes_ are said to
have no ganglions. Cuv. _ubi. supr._ 297.
[9] They are called _trisplanchnic_ because they render to the
_three_ cavities of the _viscera_:--viz. the thoracic, the abdominal
and the pelvic. _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xxii. 524. 527.
[10] In _Hemiplegia_, &c.
[11] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xvi. 307.
[12] Thus in the _Molluscæ_ there must be a great difference in this
respect, since in some of these the brain or cerebral ganglion has
been cut off with the head, and another reproduced. _Ibid._ xvi. 306.
Comp. v. 391.
[13] VOL. III. p. 29.
[14] Comp. PLATE XXX. FIG. 1. and 6. and Carus. _Introd. to Comp.
Anat._ i. 64.
[15] Lyonet _Anatom._ 100.
[16] _Ibid._ 101.
[17] Lyonet _Anatom._ 100. In man and the vertebrate animals, the
medullary pulp is every where homogeneous; under the microscope it
appears to consist of a number of minute conglomerated globules.
M. Vauquelin has analysed it, and found it to contain, of water 80
parts; of albumen in a state of demicoagulation 7·0; of phosphorus
1·50; of osmazone 1·12; of a white and transparent oily matter 4·53;
of a similar red do. 0·75; of a little sulphur and some salts 5·15.
_N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xxii. 531--.
[18] _Anat._ 99.
[19] Malpigh. _de Bombyc._ 20. Swamm. _Bibl. Nat._ i. 224. a.
[20] _Anat. Comp._ ii. 348.
[21] Lyonet _Anat._ 100. _t._ iv. _f._ 6. Sandwith _Introd._ 59--.
[22] PLATE XXI. FIG. 1. 7. 8. _a._
[23] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xxii. 527.
[24] _Ibid._ v. 591.
[25] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 318. Swamm. _Bibl. Nat._ _t._ xxix. _f._
7. Herold _Schmetterl._ _t._ ii. _f._ 1-10. _a._
[26] Cuv. _Ibid._ 322. 337.
[27] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ 324.
[28] _Arachnid._ _t._ i. _f._ 13. _m.m._
[29] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 343. 346. Treviranus _Arachnid._ _t._ v. _f._
45. _a._ PLATE XXI. FIG. 8. _a._
[30] Ibid. FIG. 1. _b.b._
[31] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 337.
[32] PLATE XXI. FIG. 8. Swamm. _Bibl. Nat._ i. 36. b.
[33] _Arachnid._ _t._ v. _f._ 45.
[34] Swamm. _ubi supr._ _t._ xliii. _f._ 7.
[35] _Ibid._ 112. a.
[36] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 337. 343--.
[37] _Ibid._ 336.
[38] Herold _Schmetterl._ _t._ ii. _f._ 1.
[39] Lyonet _Anat._ 98.
[40] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 342. Gaede N. _Act. Acad. Cæs._ XL. ii. 323.
Cuv. _Ibid._ 351.
[41] Cuv. _ubi. supr._ 348.
[42] Treviranus _Arachnid._ _t._ v. _f._ 45.
[43] PLATE XXI. FIG. 7. 8. Swamm. _Bibl. Nat._ _t._ xliii. _f._ 7.
[44] PLATE XXI. FIG. 7. 8. _c._
[45] Lyonet _Anat._ 100.
[46] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xxii. 522--.
[47] Lyonet _ubi supr._ _t._ ix. _f._ 1-4.
[48] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 339. 343.
[49] PLATE XXI. FIG. 7.
[50] Swamm. _ubi supr._ _t._ xl. _f._ 5. Cuvier (ii. 332.) accuses
Swammerdam of representing the spinal marrow in this grub as
producing nerves only on _one_ side; whereas he expressly states
(ii. 50. b.) that a considerable number spring on each side from the
eleven ganglions, but that to avoid confusion he had omitted some.
[51] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 325.
[52] Swamm. _Bibl. Nat._ _t._ xv. _f._ 6.
[53] Treviran. _Arachnid._ _t._ l. _f._ 13. 1-4.
[54] Swamm. _ubi supr._ _t._ xxii. _f._ 7.
[55] Treviran. _ubi supr._ _t._ v. _f._ 45.
[56] PLATE XXI. FIG. 7.
[57] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 346.
[58] PLATE XXI. FIG. 8.
[59] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 337.
[60] _Ibid._ 335--.
[61] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 348.
[62] _Ibid._ 320--.
[63] _Ibid._ 340--.
[64] _Ibid._ 338--.
[65] Gaede _ubi supr._
[66] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 323--. 327--. Mr. Bauer (_Phil. Trans._ 1824.
_t._ ii. _f._ 1.) has figured only _seven_, excluding the brain, in
that of the silk-worm, and Malpighi (_De Bombyc._ _t._ vi. _f._ 2.)
_ten_,--Swammerdam (_Bibl._ Nat. _t._ xxviii. _f._ 3.) however has
_twelve_.
[67] _Ibid._ 326.
[68] _Ibid._ 352.
[69] _Ibid._ 343--.
[70] _Ibid._ 345.
[71] _Ibid._ 325--.
[72] _Ibid._ 351.
[73] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 339.
[74] _Ibid._ 335--.
[75] Lyonet _Anat._ 190.
[76] Cuv. _ubi supr._ ii. 340. Malpigh. _de Bombyc._ _t._ vi. _f._ 2.
[77] Cuv. _Ibid._ 348.
[78] Swamm. _Bibl. Nat._ _t._ xlviii. _f._ 7.
[79] Cuv. _Ibid._ 319.
[80] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xxx. 420.
[81] Treviran, _Arachnid._ _t._ v. _f._ 45. _m._
[82] PLATE XXI. FIG. 1. 7. 8. _d._
[83] Lyonet _ubi supr._ _t._ x. _f._ 5. 6.
[84] _Ibid._ 192.
[85] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 323. 335.
[86] _Ibid._ ii. 339.
[87] _Ibid._ 342.
[88] Swamm. _Bibl. Nat._ _t._ xxii. _f._ 6. _m.m._
[89] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 350.
[90] _Ibid._ 335.
[91] VOL. III. p. 495--. Lyonet. _Anat._ 581.
[92] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 337.
[93] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 351.
[94] _Ibid._ 352.
[95] Cuvier (_Ibid._ 319.) seems not to have been aware that
Swammerdam was the first discoverer of these nerves, since he
attributes their name to Lyonet.
[96] _Bibl. Nat._ i. 138. b. _t._ xxviii. _f._ 2. _a_, _b_, _c_. _f._
3. _g_.
[97] _Ubi supr._ 578.
[98] _Ubi supr._ 320. 339, &c.
[99] Cuv. _ubi supr._ 349.
[100] Lyonet _Anat._ _t._ ix. x.
[101] PLATE XXI. FIG. 8. Swamm. _Bibl. Nat._ _t._ xxii. _f._ 6.
[102] _Ibid._ _t._ xv. _f._ 6.
[103] PLATE XXI. FIG. 7.
[104] Swamm. _ubi supr._ _t._ xliii. _f._ 7. _h_, _h_.
[105] PLATE XXI. FIG. 8.
[106] In Mr. Bauer's figure (_Philos. Trans._ 1824. _t._ ii. _f._ 1.)
no less than _eighteen_ pairs of nerves are represented as issuing
from the internodes; but it should seem as if in the specimen from
which his figure was taken, several of the ganglions, perhaps from
some injury received in the dissection, had become obliterated, while
their nerves remained: yet still, even making allowance for these,
many pairs will appear to take their origin from the spinal chord.
[107] Comp. Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 102-123.; with Swamm. Expl. of
PLATES XXXII. _t._ xxviii. _f._ 3. _k._
[108] Malpighi seems, however, to agree with him. _De Bombyc._ _t._
vi. _f._ 1.
[109] Lyonet _ubi supr._ 201. _t._ ix. _f._ 1, 2. n. 1, 2. &c.
[110] Swamm. _ubi supr._ 1. 139. a. _t._ xxviii. _f._ 3. _s_, _s_.
[111] In Lesser _Insecto-theol._ ii. 84. note *.
[112] _Linn. Trans._ ii. 8. Aristotle had observed this vitality of
insects, and that that of the myriapods is greatest. _Hist. Animal._
_l._ iv. _c._ 7. _De Respiratione_, _c._ 3. _Reptiles_ have also this
faculty. _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ xxix. 161.
[113] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 283--. These are named "the upper and
lower cervical ganglions."
[114] Lyonet _Anat._ _t._ ix. x. PLATE XXI. FIG. 1. _a._ _b._
[115] VOL. III. p. 663. 670.
[116] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ ii. 47--. v. 592. xvi. 308--.
[117] VOL. II. p. 519--. 507--.
[118] Huber _Fourmis_, 260--. Reaum. vi. 172--.
[119] VOL. II. p. 204.
[120] _N. Dict. d'Hist. Nat._ ii. 279--.
[121] Cuv. _Anat. Comp._ ii. 319. 337.
[122] Ibid. ii. 322, 323--; 338. 339--.
[123] PLATE XXX. FIG. 1.
[124] Ibid. FIG. 2.
[125] PLATE XXX. FIG. 3.
[126] Herold _Schmett._ _t._ ii.
|
looking down
from above. It almost fully explains the method of making this stitch to
those who have carefully read and understand the principles of making
the jersey stitch. In this illustration the carriage is moving from
right to left, and both front and back cams are in operation, therefore
both front and back needles are working.
It should be noted that the back plate is set so that the needles of
that plate come up at a point in the middle of the spaces between the
needles of the front plate. The cams, front and back, being made exactly
alike and set exactly opposite one another, must push the needles of
both plates up at the same time and draw them down at the same time.
When we feed the yarn, indicated by the letter _a_ in Fig. 26, down
through the guide, _b_, it is drawn into loops from both sides
alternately, as shown at _c_, by the opposite sets of needles, thereby
making stitches, or ribs, or wales, on both sides of the fabric. This is
the plain 1 and 1 rib stitch.
[Illustration: Fig. 25. Face and Back of Fabric; a, a, Plain Rib; b, c,
Half Cardigan; d, d, Full Cardigan.]
[Illustration: Fig. 26. Flat Knitting Machine Making the Rib Stitch.]
Varieties of Rib
This stitch, by distortion, or by manipulation of the yarns or needles,
or by a combination of two or all three of these things, can produce a
number of fabrics different both in appearance and feel. To enumerate
the principal ones, there are the half cardigan or tuck stitch, also
sometimes called royal rib; the full cardigan, and the rack stitch with
the rack on one side of the fabric and the double rack which shows the
rack on both sides of the fabric. Then there is the zig-zag stitch,
which is quite simple to make but is quite a puzzle to those not
familiar with it. There is also the cotton back, which is a well known
and popular fabric in the sweater trade.
Then there are many varieties of ribs made either in plain or in
combination with one or more of the above by taking needles out of the
machine at predetermined places, or by the Jacquard system of selecting
needles. There is also the system of making designs by the cut pressers
and pattern wheels, which is used on circular machines only.
Half Cardigan or Tuck Stitch
The half cardigan or tuck stitch is used more than any other of the
ribbed group, though it is generally used in combination with the plain
rib. The body and sleeves of the ordinary rib sweater, and much of the
rib underwear produced, are made in this stitch while the cuffs are
plain rib. The reason for this is that the half cardigan rib will knit
up considerably wider, with the same number of needles, than the plain
rib, therefore it is possible to make a shaped garment without cutting
and sewing up again. Also the plain rib comes out lighter and thinner so
makes a more desirable cuff for sweaters and underwear. It also has more
life or spring to it, which is another desirable feature.
The half cardigan or tuck stitch is the one that is almost invariably
used in making the well known cotton back sweaters. It is believed by
many people who are familiar with this fabric that the back stitch of
cotton does not come through on the face, but in this they are mistaken.
The face stitch does not go through on the back, but the back yarn does
go through on the face.
[Illustration: Fig. 27. Construction of a Half Cardigan Rib Fabric.]
Fig. 27 is a line drawing showing the course the yarn takes in making
this stitch and a careful examination of it will demonstrate to the
reader that this is the case. The dotted line _e_, _e_, indicates the
wale on the face and _f_, _f_, shows the wale on the back. It will be
noted that the back stitches of yarn come through to the face of the
fabric and connect the preceding and succeeding stitches, _c_, _c_, the
same as in the plain rib, but there is this difference, in the plain rib
these face stitches are, or should be, just the same length, while in
the half cardigan, on account of the back stitch of this course holding
over for one course, it necessarily draws a longer stitch in the back
and the yarn for this long stitch must come from the face stitch,
thereby making this face stitch very short.
In the drawing the stitches are not proportioned just as they lie in the
actual fabric, for if they were it would be very difficult to trace
their course. In the fabric the stitches _b_, _b_ are so short that they
are almost completely covered by the large, full, round stitches, _c_,
_c_, _c_. These stitches are full and large from the fact that where
they go through to the back they do not form a loop but simply cross
over the back loop as at _d_, without being drawn through. These are
completely covered by the loops _a_, _a_, in the back wale.
How the Half Cardigan or Tuck Stitch Is Made
The diagram at Fig. 28 shows the method used to make the half cardigan
or tuck stitch on a flat machine. The cams shown are what are known as
the Lamb system and are called the automatic cardigan or drop locks. The
word “locks,” as applied to the flat knitting machine, means a full set
of cams attached to the cam plates ready to affix to the carriage. There
are a number of different systems of constructing these locks, but the
one selected is the most simple of all and for this reason is used for
illustration first. The others will be taken up at the proper place.
[Illustration: Fig. 28. Automatic Locks for Making Half or Full Cardigan
Fabrics.]
In Fig. 28 only a part of the needle plates are shown. They are attached
to a frame at an angle of 90° to each other and 45° to the horizontal as
explained before. The cams are shown in working position with the
carriage (to which they are attached when in use) removed. As indicated
by the thread _h_, they are being moved toward the far end.
It should be noted that the automatic drop V-cams _a_, _a_, are in
different positions. These cams are made so that they swing freely on
the pivots _b_, _b_, and the swing is inside of the limits of the
positions of the two cams in the drawing. It is controlled by pins on
the top side of the swinging ends, the pins coming through a slot of the
proper length in the cam plate to stop them at the right place.
When starting to move these locks from the near end toward the far end,
the cam _a_, on the left, might be in any position within the limits of
the before mentioned slot in the cam plate, but the instant it comes in
contact with the butts of the needles it is automatically forced to the
position shown.
In making the half cardigan stitch the right hand cam is held up to the
top, as shown, at all times by means provided. This position forces the
needles high enough so that the latches are above and clear of the loop
that is on the needle, therefore when the needles are drawn down again
by the cam _f_, they draw new loops and cast the old ones off over the
latch and hook, and they drop down on the new loop, just as explained in
describing how to make the plain rib. This refers only to the needles in
the right plate.
The cam _a_, on the left side, however, having been swung down to its
lowest position by contact with the needle butts, raises the needles
only about one-half of the normal distance. Or to put it differently,
the needles raise high enough to open the latches and catch the yarn
when being drawn down again, but not high enough to permit the loop that
is on the needle to slide down below the latch. Therefore, after the
completion of the course we have the right side with the new loop drawn
through the old one as in plain rib, but the left side still retains the
old or previous loop and also the new one as at _j_. This leaves two
loops on every needle on the left side and one on the right when the
course is completed.
On the return course, from the far end to the near end, when the point
_i_ of the left cam, _a_, comes in contact with the first needle it must
swing up in the same position as the right cam, _a_, therefore all the
needles will draw the new loop through the two preceding ones and clear
themselves, leaving only one loop on each needle as in the plain rib.
On the next course, from the near end to the far end, the left hand
needles again hold the old loop and take on a new one as just explained,
while the right hand needles cast off the old ones and hold only the new
ones.
To condense the operation into a few words let us say that the left hand
needles always must hold the two stitches while moving in one direction,
and clear them off and hold only one on the return course; while the
right hand needles always cast off the old stitch and hold the new ones
only. The right hand needles would make the face side of the fabric.
The writer has made a special effort to explain the formation of this
particular stitch, and the reader should make the same effort to get
this formation clear in his mind, for this stitch is the base of almost
all of the fancy stitches or design work which will be taken up later.
The system used in design work is of course entirely different from the
one just described, being what might be called a selective system, that
is, a method whereby the designer may select the proper needles at the
proper time and place to make the tuck stitches block out the design
wanted.
Fig. 25, at band _c_, shows the tuck or half cardigan stitch; _b_ is the
face and _c_ is the back. If studied carefully the reader will notice
that the face side, _b_, has a full round stitch, while _c_, or the back
of the fabric, has a small narrow stitch.
The Full Cardigan Stitch
The full cardigan stitch is not nearly so generally used as the half
cardigan and plain rib stitches. It is seldom if ever used in making
underwear or any fine fabrics. When it is made it is usually used for
sweater fabrics or other novelty wearing apparel of this character.
[Illustration: Fig. 29. Construction of a Full Cardigan Fabric.]
A line drawing of the full cardigan stitch is shown in Fig. 29. This
stitch, as its name would indicate, is made in the same way as the half
cardigan only the stitches are held alternately on both rows of needles
on alternate courses. Referring again to Fig. 28, in making the full
cardigan stitch the cams would operate exactly the same while moving
toward the far end as shown and explained for the half cardigan. But the
means provided to hold the right hand cam, _a_, at the top position
would have been removed, so that on the return from the far to the near
end this cam would be thrown down to the same position as the left hand
cam, _a_, is shown, while this left hand cam would be forced up into the
position in which the right hand cam is now shown. In other words, the
stitch would be the same with the carriage or cams moving in either
direction, only it would alternate on each course from one row of
needles to the other.
We will refer back to Fig. 25, which shows both sides of a piece of
fabric with the three stitches we have just discussed in one piece. This
shows quite plainly the individual characteristics of each. All have the
same number of needles or wales, the same yarn was used, on the same
machine; yet how different the results!
The most marked difference is in the width. There is proportionately the
same difference in the thickness, but this cannot very well be shown. It
should be observed that the stitch or loops of the plain rib _a_, _a_,
and the full cardigan _d_, _d_, are the same on both sides of the
fabric, while the stitches in the half cardigan, _b_ and _c_, are not.
It will be noted also that the stitch of the plain rib is much smaller
than that of the two cardigans, also that the wales or ribs hug very
close together in the plain rib, while they are separated more or less
in the cardigans.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV
THE RACK STITCH—MAKING SHAPED COLLARS—OPPORTUNITIES IN DESIGNING FABRICS
THE rack stitch is used on many sweaters for a border on the bottom,
also for a narrow strip on both sides of the shoulder seam, and a strip
at the place the stitch changes from half cardigan to plain for the
cuff. Many sweaters have the collar and the border down the front made
separately in the rack stitch and sewed on. Most of the designs in the
knitted neckties made on flat machines are based on the rack stitch.
Another very important use for this stitch is in making a smooth sightly
edge on the bottom of sweaters, the ends of cuffs, etc.
The rack stitch is always made on one of the cardigans. From this
statement the reader will realize that this stitch is not made in place
of the half or full cardigan, or any other stitch but is an addition to,
or a further development of these stitches.
[Illustration: Fig. 30. Half Cardigan Stitch Ready to Rack.]
[Illustration: Fig. 31. Stitch After Plate Has Been Racked Over One
Needle.]
Fig. 30 shows a half cardigan stitch ready to rack, as it is customary
to make the one needle rack on this stitch. It should be noticed that
the racking is done on the course that holds, or does not cast the
previous stitch off on one side. Fig. 31 shows the stitch after the
plate has been racked over one needle. This illustration practically
explains the whole principle of the rack stitch. The rack will show on
the side that casts the stitches off the needles. It is customary to
hold the stitch or tuck on the back plate, therefore the rack shows on
the front side of the fabric, or the side toward the operator of the
machine.
Operation of Racking
It is understood, of course, that on a flat machine there must always be
an end needle on one plate or the other. Usually the knitter sets up his
machine with one plate carrying the end needle on one side of the work
and the other plate carrying the other end needle. Which end of the
respective plates carries this needle depends on the position of the
racking cam. In the illustration, Fig. 30, the front plate has the end
needle on the right and back plate has the end needle on the left. After
racking as in Fig. 31, these positions are reversed. It will be noted
that the front plate has been racked or moved over one needle so the
front needles will come up through and operate between the next two
needles to the left of their previous positions.
Or to explain it in a different way, in Fig. 30, before racking, the
front plate has the end needle on the right and operates outside of the
last needle in the back plate, but after racking, as in Fig. 31, this
end needle on the front plate has been shifted over so it comes up
inside the last needle in the back plate.
After racking over one needle there must be one full round or two
courses put on before racking again; that is while racking on the half
cardigan stitch, and then the plate is racked back to the first
position. This operation of racking first one way and then the other
with a round between each rack is continued until the necessary number
of racks are finished and then the operator proceeds with the plain half
cardigan.
This procedure would make a plain rack on one side of the fabric only.
We have assumed in this explanation that the back is stationary and the
front plate is the one that moves, but I wish to have it understood here
that it makes no difference which plate is stationary and which one
racks or is movable; the results are the same.
Some writers use the words shog or shogged in place of rack or racked,
but the writer of this work has avoided the use of these words as they
are seldom or never used by the practical knitter, at least not in this
country.
The Racking Mechanism
In most of the modern flat machines the plate that racks has enough end
clearance to rack over at least two needles, and some of them as many as
four, though racking two needles is sufficient for all ordinary work.
Fig. 32 shows the method of racking or moving the plate to make the rack
stitch, or at least this is the principle used as a rule on the imported
machines, with some modifications by some makers. This also applies to
the method shown of attaching the plates to the frame.
[Illustration: Fig. 32. The Racking Cam, Ratchet and Studs.]
There is a large flat bottom hole, _c_, bored about half way through the
plate; through the bottom of this hole there is made an elongated hole,
_b_, through which the plate is attached to the frame by the shouldered
screw, _a_, the head of which is flush with the top of the plate. It
will readily be seen that with this method the plate cannot be moved in
any direction except lengthwise of the plate, or crosswise of the
needles. To secure this movement at will there is a steel strap, _d_,
attached to the under side of the plate by the screws _j_ and _k_, and
through the outside end of this strap there are two elongated holes
through which are attached two shouldered studs with nuts _e_ and _f_.
These studs extend down on both sides of the steps of the racking cam,
_g_, and together with the plate are moved back and forth by the steps
on the racking cam. The cam is moved by the handle, _i_, in the hand
machines, or by the ratchet, _h_, being operated by pawls or dogs in
power machines.
The letter _h_ shows a front elevation of the ratchet, while _i_ is a
side view. It will be noted that there are only three teeth on each
side, and these two groups are opposed one to the other. If the reader
will examine the racking cam, _g_, with due thought the reason for this
will be obvious. There are three steps on the cam and the cam must have
an oscillating movement and not a rotary one. The ratchet, _h_, and the
racking cam, _g_, are both attached securely to one hub, therefore must
move together on a stud which projects from the end of the frame.
The plate as illustrated in Fig. 32, sets at the limit of its movement
to the left, consequently any racking that is to be done must move the
plate to the right, therefore the pawl at the top of the ratchet would
engage the uppermost tooth, _q_, and turning the ratchet one tooth would
move the racking cam one step, thus moving the plate over one needle
through its contact with the studs, _e_ and _f_. There are two pawls,
upper and lower, arranged to engage the teeth on the ratchet either at
the top or the bottom as required. If we wanted a one-needle rack only,
after putting on one round of stitches we would have the lower pawl
engage the tooth, _n_, of the ratchet and move the racking cam back to
its first position. If, however, we wanted a two-needle rack, the upper
pawl would engage the second tooth, _o_, of the ratchet. For three racks
it would then engage the next tooth, _m_, after which it would be
necessary to start on the return to the first position, remembering to
put on one course or one round, as the case may be, of stitches between
each rack. If racking on the half cardigan stitch there should be one
full round between the racks, but if on the full cardigan the racking
may be done every half round or every course, as will be explained
hereafter.
Fig. 33 is a photographic reproduction of a piece of fabric, face and
back, of a one-needle rack which shows on one side of the fabric only. A
fabric with the two-needle rack which would show on both sides of the
fabric is not illustrated, for it would be the same on both sides as the
face side of Fig. 33. A line drawing of the rack stitch is shown at Fig.
34. This is drawn out of proportion and is very loose and not like the
fabric, but by making it this way the direction the yarn takes may be
easily located.
[Illustration: Fig. 33. Face and Back of One-Needle Rack.]
[Illustration: Fig. 34. Position of Stitch After Racking.]
The Zig-Zag Stitch
Fig. 35 is an example of a fabric that may be made with a one-needle
rack. It is called the zig-zag stitch. To make this the machine should
be set to make the full cardigan stitch. After setting up the machine
and putting on one round, the needle plate is racked over one needle,
put on a course or half round and rack back one needle. Continue this
racking back and forth on each course for five rounds, then skip one
rack or put on one full round without racking and continue as before.
Repeat this operation of racking every course for five rounds and then
skip one rack and we have a zig-zag stitch.
[Illustration: Fig. 35. Zig-Zag Stitch.]
The points come where the rack is skipped, or in other words the
direction of the diagonal stitch will continue in the same direction as
long as the needle plate is racked every course without skipping, but
immediately one rack is missed the stitch starts diagonally in the other
direction. It is obvious from the foregoing explanation that the knitter
is not obliged to use any set number of courses between the change, but
may use any number at his discretion to get the distance desired between
the points.
* * * * *
Shaped Collar for Sweaters
The peculiar characteristic of this stitch is utilized in making a
shaped collar for sweaters, as shown in Figs. 38 and 39. First let the
reader remember that the direction the diagonal stitch takes all depends
on which end of the machine the carriage is at when the racking
operation begins. It should be understood that the collars are made in a
long string and the three parts, as shown in Fig. 38, are duplicated one
after another. On either end, where this piece has been cut off, there
was a duplicate of the plain racked piece shown at the middle, and at
the end of these there was another diagonal piece, and so on from the
beginning to the end.
[Illustration: Fig. 38. Shaped Collar for Sweaters as Knit.]
It should be clear to the reader that if the piece shown (Fig. 38) were
cut through on the broken lines we would have one complete collar and we
would have left the diagonal stitch that belongs on one end of each of
the two adjoining center pieces, therefore by cutting all the collars
apart at the point indicated by the line we would have our collars
shaped without any waste and would have a selvage or finished edge on
the outside.
[Illustration: Fig. 39. Shaped Collar Folded.]
The collar is stitched or sewed on the neck opening of the sweater along
the cut edge and across the bottom of the racked center piece, and after
it is finished and the sweater coat buttoned up it folds over and looks
as shown in Fig. 39. As stated before this collar can be made on a
machine that racks over only one needle, but in that case the center
piece would be racked on one side only, therefore it is customary to
make these collars on a two needle rack machine with the middle portion
racked on both sides as will be noted in Fig. 39.
Making a rack on both sides of the fabric is very much like making the
diagonal stitch in the operation of the machine, even though the
resultant fabric is so radically different. It should be made with a
full cardigan stitch same as the zig-zag or diagonal, and the needle
plate must be racked every course or half round, but with this
difference: When making the diagonal stitch the needle plate is racked
over one needle and back again, while to rack both sides of the fabric
the needle plate is racked over two needles. This does not mean that the
knitter should rack over two needles at once, for this should never be
done, but rack over one needle, let us say to the right, then put on one
course and rack over the second needle to the right, put on one course
and rack one needle to the left, put on one course and rack the second
needle to the left. Or in other words, rack alternately two needles to
the right and left and put on one course or half round each time the
needle plate is racked one needle.
There is one other point that should be remembered in making this collar
and that is the manner of starting the diagonal stitch in the proper
direction after finishing in the middle portion. Each time this part is
finished the diagonal stitch should go in the opposite way from the
previous time, therefore when the one needle half round rack starts to
make this stitch the first rack should be made with the carriage on the
opposite side of the machine from which the previous one was started.
Opportunity for Varying Designs
Fig. 37 is an interesting example of what may be done with the
two-needle rack. Designs of this character require the removal or
pulling down out of operation of every other needle, therefore a machine
of any given cut, or needles per inch, would be in reality only half as
fine as cut and would necessitate the use of a heavier or larger yarn.
[Illustration: Fig. 37. Basket Weave Design Made With the Rack.]
To make the fabric shown in Fig. 37 pull down or remove every other
needle in the front plate. Then pull down or remove every other needle
in the back plate for five needles, then leave two needles together and
remove every other needle for five more, leave two needles together and
continue as before until the full width of needles in working position
are as follows: Every other needle down out of working position in the
front plate, and every other one down in groups of five with two needles
together between these groups in the back plate.
We will find by this arrangement that when we rack the plate over one
needle, every second group of five needles in the back plate will rack
across a needle of the front plate, but the other groups will simply
move between the needles in the front plate, therefore will make a plain
half cardigan stitch only, while the other groups will make a rack
stitch. If this operation were continued in this way, racking one needle
only back and forth, we would get a fabric with vertical stripes of
alternating plain half cardigan and rack stitch. But if we rack back and
forth one needle each round for ten rounds, then rack over the second
needle and rack back and forth one needle in this position, we will find
that the groups of five needles that were racking in the first instance
are now making the plain half cardigan stitch, and the groups that were
at first making the plain are now racking.
[Illustration: Fig. 36. Designs Made with Rack Stitch.]
An ingenious knitter can make an almost unlimited number of designs of
this character by different arrangements of his needles and a variation
of the timing of his racks. One thing which should be remembered is that
all racking should be done on the course that tucks or holds two
stitches when racking on the half cardigan. On the full cardigan both
courses are tucked, therefore it does not matter which one is racked,
only the side of the fabric on which the rack shows is dependent upon
which course the plate is racked.
The design shown in Fig. 36 at _a_ is simply a zig-zag stitch with three
needles taken out of the back plate at short intervals, giving these
places a piping effect. The fabric at _b_ is a plain one-needle rack
with the piping made in the same manner.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER V
THE DOUBLE LOCK FLAT MACHINE—HOW DIFFERENT STITCHES ARE FORMED
Our study of flat machines up to this point has dealt entirely with the
class known as the single lock machines, or those that have but one set
or pair of locks to do the knitting. There is another very popular type,
commonly known as the double-lock machine, which is, it might be said,
in a class by itself. This machine, as the name would indicate, has two
sets or pairs of locks mounted on the same carriage, and set as closely
together as they can be and work properly.
The double-lock machine has many advantages over the single-lock type,
the most important being that there can be made upon it a two-faced
fabric, that is, a fabric with each side faced with a different yarn,
either in color, quality or both. The popular “cotton back” sweater is
in this class. In making this class of fabric it is essential that the
two different yarns, to show out on the two faces of the fabric, go into
the fabric in alternate courses. Therefore, it is obvious that it would
not be practical to make this fabric on a single lock machine, for when
a course was finished the second yarn would be on the opposite end of
the machine from the locks and yarn carrier, and it would be necessary
to put on a full round, or two courses, in order to get back to that end
to exchange yarn carriers.
The double-lock machine overcomes this difficulty by taking both yarn
carriers across, one following the other, each on a pair of locks, each
time the carriage moves across the machine. It is evident from this that
every time the carriage is moved across the machine there are two
courses put on the fabric, instead of one as with the single-lock
machine.
Speed and Production
This point leads up to another advantage of the double-lock machine,
that is, increased production on account of putting on two courses with
each movement of the carriage across, as against one course with the
single-lock machine. The production would not be twice as much, as might
be supposed at first thought, for comparing two machines of the same
size, the single lock could be operated at a greater speed than the
double lock, but not approaching twice the speed. The reason for this is
that the locks of the double-lock machine must, of course, be
practically twice the length of the locks of the single-lock machine,
and inasmuch as the locks must move far enough at each end to be clear
of or past the needles, it is quite obvious that the double-lock
carriage must have a longer travel. Therefore, it takes longer to
complete one round of the carriage than the single-lock machine, to
maintain the same needle speed.
This brings us to another point that may as well be disposed of here,
and that is the speed of latch needle machines. Generally speaking, the
maximum speed of a latch needle machine, either flat or circular, is
governed by the needle speed; that is, the speed at which the cams raise
and lower the needles, and the thread velocity, which is of course
dependent on the needle speed.
Speed of Flat Machines
As a general rule, where the machine is in good condition and the yarn
of fairly good quality, a flat machine with a crank drive should be
operated at from 100 to 125 lineal feet per minute, and a chain drive
may be operated at from 125 to 150 lineal feet per minute. The reason
for this difference between the chain drive and the crank drive is that
with the crank drive the movement of the carriage across the machine is
not uniform throughout, its movement being faster in the center than at
either end, therefore we must regulate our speed so it will not be too
high at this point. On the other hand, the chain drive carries uniformly
throughout the movement of the carriage except for two or three inches
at the ends.
To explain what is meant by lineal feet per minute, let us assume that
we have a 20-inch machine, that is, there are 20 inches of needles. In
this case the carriage would have to travel about 30 inches on account
of the locks having to clear the needles at both ends, therefore a
movement of the carriage across and back, or one complete round, would
cover twice 30 inches or 60 inches, or 5 feet. Now if we intend to run
this machine at a speed of 120 lineal feet per minute, we would divide
120 feet by 5 feet, which would give us 24 rounds per minute, the speed
the machine should run.
I do not wish to be understood as giving this as a hard and fast rule
for the speed of machines, for there are many factors which enter into
the operation of knitting machinery which might make it desirable to
vary this speed. Some of these factors are the condition of the machine,
the experience of the operator, the character of the yarn, the class of
fabric, and sometimes the skill of the mechanic in charge of the
machines.
Going back to the two-faced fabric, this must be made on one of the two
cardigans. The “cotton backs” are usually made on the half cardigan,
while the fabrics with two different colored faces are made on the full
cardigan as a rule.
[Illustration: Fig. 40. Dubied System of Double Locks.]
Fig. 40 shows a type of double lock used in a Dubied machine made in
Switzerland. The reader will understand from what has gone before that
this illustration shows the locks turned upside down, that is, if they
were in operation on a machine they would be turned over with the cams
close to the needle plates. It will be noted that the fundamentals are
the same as in the Lamb system previously described, but the method used
to change from the plain rib to the full or half cardigan, or vice
versa, is different.
In making a plain rib fabric the needle butts would follow the camway as
in the Lamb system, that is, if the carriage were being moved from left
to right the needle butts would follow the course up with cams 1_a_,
1_b_ and 1_c_ below, and 1, 1_s_, 8_s_ and 8 above. This explanation
would of course apply to all four sets of cams. The cams 1_b_, 2_b_,
3_b_ and 4_b_ have studs which project through the cam plate and there
are means provided to draw any one or all of these cams back through the
cam plate by these studs far enough so that the faces of the cams are
flush with the cam plate, and entirely out of operation.
The cams 1_c_, 2_c_, 3_c_ and 4_c_ are made to swing on the pivots,
_aa_, and are held down on cams, 1_a_ to 4_a_, in the position shown, by
springs. It should be particularly noticed that the cams just mentioned,
1_b_ to 4_b_, and 1_c_ to 4_c_, are exactly alike in the four sets of
locks, but their positions are reversed in the sets opposite. They are
placed in this way in order to facilitate the making of the cardigan
stitches.
Making Half Cardigan Stitch
In the study of what follows it should be remembered that the
illustration at Fig. 40 shows the locks bottom up, therefore in actual
operation the lower set in the illustrations would be the back ones, and
the upper set the front ones.
In making the half cardigan stitch it is customary to have the tuck or
holdover stitch on the back plate; on the double-lock machine, where we
have two feeds, it is on the back feed, and the plain course is on the
locks that are leading. Therefore, to make a half cardigan stitch with
these locks we would simply raise cams 2_b_ and 3_b_ up through the cam
plate out of working position.
Now remembering that the cams 2_c_ and 3_c_ are free to swing up and
down on the pivots, _aa_, and are held down in their present position by
a small spring, it should be readily understood that in moving the
carriage from, let us say, left to right, the butts of the needles would
follow up the right side of cam 2_a_, and on up over 2_c_, therefore
would knit out on this course. But when these butts came to the second
set of locks they would move up the right side of cam 3_a_ until they
came to the upper right hand corner of this cam, and
|
Afloat, and push ahead--Arctic hairbreadth
escapes--Nearly caught in the pack--Shooting little auks--The
Arctic Highlanders--Cape York--Crimson snow--Struggling to the
westward--Reach the West-land--Off the entrance of Lancaster
Sound, 116
CHAPTER IX.
Off Cape Warrender--Sight the whalers again--Enter Pond's
Bay--Communicate with Esquimaux--Ascend Pond's Inlet--Esquimaux
information--Arctic summer abode--An Arctic village--No intelligence
of Franklin's ships--Arctic trading--Geographical information of
natives--Information of Rae's visit--Improvidence of
Esquimaux--Travels of Esquimaux, 132
CHAPTER X.
Leave Pond's Bay--A gale in Lancaster Sound--The Beechey Island
Depôt--An Arctic monument--Reflections at Beechey Island--Proceed
up Barrow's Strait--Peel Sound--Port Leopold--Prince Regent's
Inlet--Bellot Strait--Flood-tide from the west--Unsuccessful
efforts--Fox's Hole--No water to the west--Precautionary
measures--Fourth attempt to pass through, 153
CHAPTER XI.
Proceed westward in a boat--Cheerless state of the western
sea--Struggles in Bellot Strait--Falcons, good Arctic fare--The
resources of Boothia Felix--Future sledge travelling--Heavy
gales--Hobson's party start--Winter quarters--Bellot
Strait--Advanced depôt established--Observatories--Intense
cold--Autumn travellers--Narrow escape, 174
CHAPTER XII.
Death of our engineer--Scarcity of game--The cold unusually
trying--Jolly, under adverse circumstances--Petersen's
information--Return of the sun of 1859--Early spring
sledge-parties--Unusual severity of the winter--Severe hardships
of early sledging--The western shores of Boothia--Meet the
Esquimaux--Intelligence of Franklin's ships--Return to the
'Fox'--Allen Young returns, 192
CHAPTER XIII.
Dr. Walker's sledge journey--Snow-blindness attacks Young's
party--Departure of all sledge-parties--Equipment of
sledge-parties--Meet the same party of natives--Intelligence
of the second ship--My depôt robbed--Part company from
Hobson--Matty Island--Deserted snow-huts--Native sledges--Land
on King William's Land, 217
CHAPTER XIV.
Meet Esquimaux--News of Franklin's people--Frighten a solitary
party--Reach the Great Fish River--On Montreal Island--Total
absence of all relics--Examine Ogle Peninsula--Discover
a skeleton--Vagueness of Esquimaux information--Cape
Herschel--Cairn, 235
CHAPTER XV.
The cairn found empty--Discover Hobson's letter--Discovery of
Crozier's record--The deserted boat--Articles discovered about
the boat--The skeletons and relics--The boat belonged to the
'Erebus'--Conjectures, 253
CHAPTER XVI.
Errors in Franklin's records--Relics found at the cairn--Reflections
on the retreat--Returning homeward--Geological remarks--Difficulties
of summer sledging--Arrive on board the 'Fox'--Navigable N.W.
passage--Death from scurvy--Anxiety for Captain Young--Young returns
safely, 272
CHAPTER XVII.
Signs of release--Dearth of animal life--Owl is good beef--Beat out of
winter quarters--Our game-list--Reach Fury Beach--Escape from
Regent's Inlet--In Baffin's Bay--Captain Allen Young's
journey--Disco; sad disappointment--Part from our Esquimaux
friends--Adieu to Greenland--Arrive home, 292
CONCLUSION, 315
* * * * *
APPENDIX.
No. I.--A Letter to Viscount Palmerston, K.G., &c., from Lady
Franklin, 319
No. II.--Memorial to the Right Hon. Viscount Palmerston, M.P.,
G.C.B., 329
No. III.--List of Relics of the Franklin Expedition brought to
England in the 'Fox' by Captain M'Clintock, 334
No. IV.--Geological Account of the Arctic Archipelago, by Professor
Haughton, 341
No. V.--List of Subscribers to the 'Fox' Expedition, 373
JOURNAL OF THE SEARCH FOR SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.
CHAPTER I.
Cause of delay in equipment--Fittings of the 'Fox'--Volunteers for
Arctic service--Assistance from public departments--Reflections upon
the undertaking--Instructions and departure--Orkneys and
Greenland--Fine Arctic scenery--Danish establishments in
Greenland--Frederickshaab, in Davis' Straits.
It is now a matter of history how Government and private expeditions
prosecuted, with unprecedented zeal and perseverance, the search for Sir
John Franklin's ships, between the years 1847-55; and that the only ray
of information gleaned was that afforded by the inscriptions upon three
tombstones at Beechey Island, briefly recording the names and dates of
the deaths of those individuals of the lost expedition, who thus early
fell in the cause of science and of their country.
In this manner were we made aware of the locality where the Franklin
expedition passed its first Arctic winter. The traces assuring us of
that fact, were discovered in August, 1850, by Captain Ommanney, R.N.,
of H.M.S. 'Assistance,' and by Captain Penny, of the 'Lady Franklin.'
{FORMER EXPEDITIONS.}
In October, 1854, Dr. Rae brought home the only additional information
respecting them which has ever reached us. From the Esquimaux of Boothia
Felix he learned that a party of about forty white men were met on the
west coast of King William's Island, and from thence travelled on to the
mouth of the Great Fish River, where they all perished of starvation,
and that this tragic event occurred apparently in the spring of 1850.
Some relics obtained from these natives, and brought home by Dr. Rae,
were proved to have belonged to Sir John Franklin and several of his
associates.
The Government caused an exploring party to descend the Fish River in
1855; but, although sufficient traces were found to prove that some
portion of the crews of the 'Erebus' and 'Terror' had actually landed on
the banks of that river, and traces existed of them up to Franklin
Rapids, no additional information was obtained either from the discovery
of records, or through the Esquimaux. Mr. Anderson, the Hudson Bay
Company's officer in charge, and his small party, deserve credit for
their perseverance and skill; but they were not furnished with the
necessary means of accomplishing their mission. Mr. Anderson could not
obtain an interpreter, and the two frail bark canoes in which his whole
party embarked were almost worn out before they reached the locality to
be searched. It is not surprising that such an expedition caused very
considerable excitement at home.
{APR., 1857.}
{CAUSE OF DELAY IN EQUIPMENT.}
Lady Franklin, and the advocates for further search, now pressed upon
government the necessity of following up, in a more effectual manner,
the traces accidentally found by Dr. Rae, and, in fact, of rendering the
search complete by one more effort, involving but little of hazard or
expense. It was not until April, 1857, that any decisive answer was
given to Lady Franklin's appeal. (See Appendix No. 1.)
Sir Charles Wood then stated "that the members of Her Majesty's
Government, having come, with great regret, to the conclusion that there
was no prospect of saving life, would not be justified, for any objects
which in their opinion could be obtained by an expedition to the Arctic
seas, in exposing the lives of officers and men to the risk inseparable
from such an enterprise."
Lady Franklin, upon this final disappointment of her hopes, had no
hesitation in immediately preparing to send out a searching expedition,
equipped and stored at her own cost. But she was not left alone. Many
friends of the cause--including some of the most distinguished
scientific men in England,[12] and especially Sir Roderick Murchison,
whose zeal was as practical as it was enlightened--hastened to tender
their aid, and soon a very considerable sum was raised in furtherance of
so truly noble an effort.
{NOMINATION OF COMMANDER.}
On the 18th of April, 1857, Lady Franklin did me the honor to offer me
the command of the proposed expedition; it was of course most cheerfully
accepted. As a post of honor and some difficulty, it possessed quite
sufficient charms for a naval officer who had already served in three
consecutive expeditions from 1848 to 1854. I was thoroughly conversant
with all the details of this peculiar service; and I confess, moreover,
that my whole heart was in the cause. How could I do otherwise than
devote myself to save at least the record of faithful service, even unto
death, of my brother officers and seamen? and, being one of those by
whose united efforts not only the Franklin search, but the geography of
Arctic America, has been brought so nearly to completion, I could not
willingly resign to posterity, the honor of filling up even the small
remaining blank upon our maps.
To leave these discoveries incomplete, more especially in a quarter
through which the tidal stream actually demonstrates the existence of a
channel--the only remaining hope of a practicable north-west
passage--would indeed be leaving strong inducement for future explorers
to reap the rich reward of our long-continued exertions.
{PURCHASE OF THE 'FOX.'}
I immediately applied to the Admiralty for leave of absence to complete
the Franklin search; and on the 23d received at Dublin the telegraphic
message from Lady Franklin: "Your leave is granted; the 'Fox' is mine;
the refit will commence immediately." She had already purchased the
screw-yacht 'Fox,' of 177 tons burthen, and now placed her, together
with the necessary funds, at my disposal.
Let me explain what is here implied by the simple word refit. The velvet
hangings and splendid furniture of the yacht, and also every thing not
constituting a part of the vessel's strengthening, were to be removed;
the large sky-lights and capacious ladderways had to be reduced to
limits more adapted to a polar clime; the whole vessel to be externally
sheathed with stout planking, and internally fortified by strong
cross-beams, longitudinal beams, iron stanchions, and diagonal
fastenings; the false keel taken off, the slender brass propeller
replaced by a massive iron one, the boiler taken out, altered, and
enlarged; the sharp stem to be cased in iron until it resembled a
ponderous chisel set up edgeways; even the yacht's rig had to be
altered.
She was placed in the hands of her builders, Messrs. Hall & Co., of
Aberdeen, who displayed even more than their usual activity in effecting
these necessary alterations, for it was determined that the 'Fox' should
sail by the 1st July.
{FITTINGS OF THE 'FOX.'}
Internally she was fitted up with the strictest economy in every sense,
and the officers were crammed into pigeon-holes, styled cabins, in order
to make room for provisions and stores; our mess-room, for five persons,
measured 8 feet square. The ordinary heating apparatus for winter use
was dispensed with, and its place supplied by a few very small stoves.
The 'Fox' had been the property of the late Sir Richard Sutton, Bart.,
who made but one trip to Norway in her, and she was purchased by Lady
Franklin from his executors for 2000_l._
Having thus far commenced the refit of the vessel, I turned my attention
to the selection of a crew and to the requisite clothing and provisions
for our voyage.
Many worthy old shipmates, my companions in the previous Arctic voyages,
most readily volunteered their services, and they were as cheerfully
accepted, for it was my anxious wish to gather round me well-tried men,
who were aware of the duties expected of them, and accustomed to naval
discipline. Hence, out of the twenty-five souls composing our small
company, seventeen had previously served in the Arctic search.
Expeditions of this kind are always popular with seamen, and innumerable
were the applications sent to me; but still more abundant were the
offers to "serve in any capacity" which poured in from all parts of the
country, from people of all classes, many of whom had never seen the
sea. It was, of course, impossible to accede to any of these latter
proposals, yet, for my own part, I could not but feel gratified at such
convincing proofs that the spirit of the country was favorable to us,
and that the ardent love of hardy enterprise still lives amongst
Englishmen, as of old, to be cherished, I trust, as the most valuable of
our national characteristics--as that which has so largely contributed
to make England what she is.
{OFFICERS OF THE EXPEDITION.}
My second in command was Lieutenant W. R. Hobson, R.N., an officer
already distinguished in Arctic service. Captain Allen Young joined me
as sailing-master, contributing not only his valuable services but
largely of his private funds to the expedition. This gentleman had
previously commanded some of our very finest merchant ships, the latest
being the steam-transport 'Adelaide' of 2500 tons: he had but recently
returned, in ill health, from the Black Sea, where he was most actively
employed during the greater part of the Crimean campaign. Nothing that I
could say would add to the merit of such singularly generous and
disinterested conduct. David Walker, M.D., volunteered for the post of
surgeon and naturalist; he also undertook the photographic department;
and just before sailing, Carl Petersen, now so well known to Arctic
readers as the Esquimaux interpreter in the expeditions of Captain
Penny and Dr. Kane, came to join me from Copenhagen, although landed
there from Greenland only six days previously, after an absence of a
year from his family: we were indebted to Sir Roderick Murchison and the
electric telegraph for securing his valuable services.
{ASSISTANCE FROM PUBLIC DEPARTMENTS.}
Like the Paris omnibuses we were at length _tout complet_, and quite as
anxious to make a start.
Ample provisions for twenty-eight months were embarked, including
preserved vegetables, lemon-juice, and pickles, for daily consumption,
and preserved meats for every third day: also as much of Messrs.
Allsopp's stoutest ale as we could find room for. The Government,
although declining to send out an expedition, yet now contributed
liberally to our supplies. All our arms, powder, shot, powder for
ice-blasting, rockets, maroons, and signal mortar, were furnished by the
Board of Ordnance. The Admiralty caused 6682 lbs. of pemmican to be
prepared for our use. Not less than 85,000 lbs. of this invaluable food
have been prepared since 1845 at the Royal Clarence Victualing Yard,
Gosport, for the use of the Arctic Expeditions. It is composed of prime
beef cut into thin slices and dried over a wood fire; then pounded up
and mixed with about an equal weight of melted beef fat. The pemmican is
then pressed into cases capable of containing 42 lbs. each. The
Admiralty supplied us with all the requisite ice-gear, such as saws
from ten to eighteen feet in length, ice-anchors, and ice-claws: also
with our winter housing, medicines, pure lemon-juice, seamen's library,
hydrographical instruments, charts, chronometers, and an ample supply of
arctic clothing which had remained in store from former expeditions. The
Board of Trade contributed a variety of meteorological and nautical
instruments and journals; and I found that I had but to ask of these
departments for what was required, and if in store it was at once
granted. I asked, however, only for such things as were indispensably
necessary.
{DONATION FROM ROYAL SOCIETY.}
The President and Council of the Royal Society voted the sum of 50_l._
from their donation fund for the purchase of magnetic and other
scientific instruments, in order that our anticipated approach to so
interesting a locality as the Magnetic Pole might not be altogether
barren of results.
Being desirous to retain for my vessel the privileges she formerly
enjoyed as a yacht, my wishes were very promptly gratified; in the first
instance by the Royal Harwich Yacht Club, of which my officers and
myself were enrolled as members--the Commodore, A. Arcedeckne, Esq.,
presenting my vessel with the handsome ensign and burgee of the Club;
and shortly afterwards by my being elected a member of the Royal
Victoria Yacht Club for the period of my voyage. Lastly, upon the very
day of sailing, I was proposed for the Royal Yacht Squadron, to which
the yacht had previously belonged when the property of Sir Richard
Stratton.
{REFLECTIONS UPON THE UNDERTAKING.}
Throughout the whole period required for our equipment, I constantly
experienced the heartiest co-operation and earnest good will from all
with whom my varied duties brought me in contact. Deep sympathy with
Lady Franklin in her distress, her self-devotion and sacrifice of
fortune, and an earnest desire to extend succor to any chance survivors
of the ill-fated expedition who might still exist, or at least, to
ascertain their fate, and rescue from oblivion their heroic deeds,
seemed the natural promptings of every honest English heart. It is
needless to add that this experience of public opinion confirmed my own
impression that the glorious mission intrusted to me was in reality a
_great national duty_. I could not but feel that, if the gigantic and
admirably equipped national expeditions sent out on precisely the same
duty, and reflecting so much credit upon the Board of Admiralty, were
ranked amongst the noblest efforts in the cause of humanity any nation
ever engaged in, and that, if high honor was awarded to all composing
those splendid expeditions, surely the effort became still more
remarkable and worthy of approbation when its means were limited to one
little vessel, containing but twenty-five souls, equipped and
provisioned (although efficiently, yet) in a manner more according with
the limited resources of a private individual than with those of the
public purse. The less the means, the more arduous I felt was the
achievement. The greater the risk--for the 'Fox' was to be launched
alone into those turbulent seas from which every other vessel had long
since been withdrawn--the more glorious would be the success, the more
honorable even the defeat, if again defeat awaits us.
{LADY FRANKLIN'S VISIT.}
Upon the last day of June, Lady Franklin, accompanied by her niece Miss
Sophia Cracroft, and Capt. Maguire, R.N., came on board to bid us
farewell, for we purposed sailing in the evening. Seeing how deeply
agitated she was on leaving the ship, I endeavored to repress the
enthusiasm of my crew, but without avail; it found vent in three
prolonged, hearty cheers. The strong feeling which prompted them was
truly sincere; and this unbidden exhibition of it can hardly have
gratified her for whom it was intended more than it did myself.
I must here insert the only written instructions I could prevail upon
Lady Franklin to give me; they were not read until the 'Fox' was fairly
in the Atlantic.
{LADY FRANKLIN'S INSTRUCTIONS.}
ABERDEEN, _June 29, 1857_.
MY DEAR CAPTAIN M'CLINTOCK,
You have kindly invited me to give you "Instructions," but I cannot
bring myself to feel that it would be right in me in any way to
influence your judgment in the conduct of your noble undertaking;
and indeed I have no temptation to do so, since it appears to me
that your views are almost identical with those which I had
independently formed before I had the advantage of being thoroughly
possessed of yours. But had this been otherwise, I trust you would
have found me ready to prove the implicit confidence I place in you
by yielding my own views to your more enlightened judgment; knowing
too as I do that your whole heart also is in the cause, even as my
own is. As to the objects of the expedition and their relative
importance, I am sure you know that the rescue of any possible
survivor of the 'Erebus' and 'Terror' would be to me, as it would be
to you, the noblest result of our efforts.
To this object I wish every other to be subordinate; and next to it
in importance is the recovery of the unspeakably precious documents
of the expedition, public and private, and the personal relics of my
dear husband and his companions.
And lastly, I trust it may be in your power to confirm, directly or
inferentially, the claims of my husband's expedition to the earliest
discovery of the passage, which, if Dr. Rae's report be true (and
the Government of our country has accepted and rewarded it as such),
these martyrs in a noble cause achieved at their last extremity,
after five long years of labor and suffering, if not at an earlier
period.
I am sure you will do all that man can do for the attainment of all
these objects; my only fear is that you may spend yourselves too
much in the effort; and you must therefore let me tell you how much
dearer to me even than any of them is the preservation of the
valuable lives of the little band of heroes who are your companions
and followers.
May God in his great mercy preserve you all from harm amidst the
labors and perils which await you, and restore you to us in health
and safety as well as honor! As to the honor I can have _no_
misgiving. It will be yours as much if you fail (since you _may_
fail in spite of every effort) as if you succeed; and be assured
that, under _any and all circumstances whatever_, such is my
unbounded confidence in you, you will ever possess and be entitled
to the enduring gratitude of your sincere and attached friend,
JANE FRANKLIN.
{JULY, 1857.}
{ORKNEYS AND GREENLAND.}
We were not destined to get to sea that evening. The 'Fox,' hitherto
during her brief career, accustomed only to the restraint imposed upon a
gilded pet in summer seas, seemed to have got an inkling that her duty
henceforth was to combat with difficulties, and, entering fully into the
spirit of the cruise, answered her helm so much more readily than the
pilot expected that she ran aground upon the bar. She was promptly
shored up, and remained in that position until next morning, when she
floated off unhurt at high water, and commenced her long and lonely
voyage.
Scarcely had we left the busy world behind us when we were actively
engaged in making arrangements for present comfort and future exertion.
How busy, how happy, and how full of hope we all were then!
On the night of the 2d of July we passed through the Pentland Firth,
where the tide rushing impetuously against a strong wind raised up a
tremendous sea, amid which the little vessel struggled bravely under
steam and canvas. The bleak wild shores of Orkney, the still wilder
pilot's crew, and their hoarse screams and unintelligible dialect, the
shrill cry of innumerable sea-birds, the howling breeze and angry sea,
made us feel as if we had suddenly awoke in Greenland itself. The
southern extremity of that ice-locked continent became visible on the
12th. It is quaintly named Cape Farewell; but whether by some sanguine
outward-bound adventurer who fancied that in leaving Greenland behind
him he had already secured his passage to Cathay; or whether by the
wearied homesick mariner, feebly escaping from the grasp of winter in
his shattered bark, and firmly purposing to bid a long farewell to this
cheerless land, history altogether fails to enlighten us.
{GREENLAND.}
From January until July this coast is usually rendered unapproachable by
a broad margin of heavy ice, which drifts there from the vicinity of
Spitzbergen, and, lapping round the Cape, extends alongshore to the
northward about as far as Baal's River, a distance of 250 miles.
Although it effectually blockades the ports of South Greenland for the
greater part of the summer, and is justly dreaded by the captains of the
Greenland traders, it confers important benefits upon the Greenlander by
bearing to his shores immense numbers of seals and many bears. The same
current which conveys hither all this ice is also freighted with a
scarcely less valuable supply of driftwood from the Siberian rivers.
About this time, one of my crew showing symptoms of diseased lungs, I
determined to embrace the earliest opportunity of sending him home out
of a climate so fatal to those who are thus affected; and having learnt
from Mr. Petersen, who had quitted Greenland only in April last, that a
vessel would very soon leave Frederickshaab for Copenhagen, I resolved
to go to that place in order to catch this homeward-bound ship.
{SPITZBERGEN ICE.}
It was necessary to push through the Spitzbergen ice, and we fortunately
succeeded in doing so after eighteen hours of buffeting with this
formidable enemy; at first we found it tolerably loose, and the wind
being strong and favorable, we thumped along pleasantly enough; but as
we advanced, the ice became much more closely packed, a thick fog came
on, and many hard knocks were exchanged; at length our steam carried us
through into the broad belt of clear water between the ice and land,
which Petersen assures me always exists here at this season.
The dense fog now prevented further progress, and as evening closed in I
gave up all hope of improvement for the night, when suddenly the fog
rolled back upon the land, disclosing some islets close to us, then the
rugged points of mainland, and at length, lifting altogether, the
distant snowy mountain-peaks against a deep blue sky.
The evening became bright and delightful; the whole extent of coast was
fringed with innumerable islets, backed by lofty mountains, and, being
richly tinted by a glorious western sun, formed an unusually splendid
sight. Greenland unveiled to our anxious gaze that memorable evening,
all the magnificence of her natural beauty. Was it to welcome us that
she thus cast off her dingy outer mantle, and shone forth radiant with
smiles?--such winning smiles!
{FINE ARCTIC SCENERY.}
A faint streak of mist, which we could not account for, appeared to
float across a low, wide interval in the mountain range; the telescope
revealed its true character,--it was a portion of the distant glacier.
We found ourselves upon the Tallard Bank, 30 miles north of our port,
having been rapidly carried northwards by the Spitzbergen current.
_July 20th._--This morning the chief trader of the settlement, or, as he
is more usually styled by the English, the Governor, came off to us, and
his pilot soon conducted us into the safe little harbor of
Frederickshaab. I was much gratified to learn that we were just in time
to secure a passage home for our ailing shipmate.
For trading purposes Greenland is monopolized by the Danish government;
its Esquimaux and mixed population amount to about 7000 souls. About
1000 Danes reside constantly there for the purpose of conducting the
trade, which consists almost exclusively in the exchange of European
goods for oil and the skins of seals, reindeer, and a few other
animals.
{DANISH ESTABLISHMENTS, GREENLAND.}
The Esquimaux are not subject to Danish laws, but although proud of
their nominal independence they are sincerely attached to the Danes, and
with abundant reason; a Lutheran clergyman, a doctor, and a
schoolmaster, whose duty it is to give gratuitous instruction and
relief, are paid by the Government, and attached to each district; and
when these improvident people are in distress, which not unfrequently
happens during the long winters, provisions are issued to them free of
cost; spirits are strictly prohibited. All of them have become
Christians, and many can read and write.
Have we English done more, or as much, for the aborigines in any of our
numerous colonies, and especially for the Esquimaux within our own
territories of Labrador and Hudson's Bay?
Greenland is divided into two inspectorates, the northern and southern;
the inspector of the latter division, Dr. Rink, had arrived at
Frederickshaab upon his summer round of visits only the day previous to
ourselves. He came on board to call upon me, and after Divine service I
landed, and enjoyed a ramble with him over the moss-clad hills. Our
first meeting was in North Greenland, in 1848; we had not seen one
another since, so we had much to talk about. Dr. Rink is a gentleman of
acknowledged talent, a distinguished traveller, and is thoroughly
conversant with the sciences of geology and botany.
{FREDERICKSHAAB, DAVIS' STRAITS.}
Unfortunately for me his excellent work on Greenland has not been
translated into English.
We were kindly permitted to purchase eight tons of coals, and such small
things as were required; the only fresh supplies to be obtained besides
codfish, which was abundant, consisted of a very few ptarmigan and
hares, and a couple of kids; these last are scarce. Some goats exist,
but for eight months out of the year they are shut up in a house, and
even now--in midsummer,--are only let out in the daytime. We also
purchased of the Esquimaux some specimens of Esquimaux workmanship, such
as models of the native dresses, kayaks, etc., also birds' skins and
eggs. I saw fine specimens of a white swan, and of a bird said to be
extremely rare in Greenland,--it was a species of grebe, _Podiceps
cristatus_, I imagine. Frederickshaab is just now well supplied with
wood: besides an unseaworthy brig, the wreck of a large timber-ship lay
on the beach, and an abandoned timber-vessel, which was met with between
Iceland and Greenland in July by Prince Napoleon, drifted upon the coast
30 miles to the northward in the following September.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] A list of them and their subscriptions to be given in Appendix.
CHAPTER II.
Fiskernaes and Esquimaux--The 'Fox' reaches Disco--Disco Fiord--Summer
scenery--Waigat Strait--Coaling from the mine--Purchasing Esquimaux
dogs--Heavy gale off Upernivik--Melville Bay--The middle ice--The
great glacier of Greenland--Reindeer cross the glacier.
{LICHTENFELS.}
_23rd July._--Sailed the day before yesterday for Godhaab. The fog was
thick, and wind strong and contrary, but the current being favorable we
found ourselves off the small out-station of Fiskernaes, when early this
morning our fore topmast was carried away; this accident induced me to
run in and anchor for the purpose of repairing the damage.
After passing within the outer islets, the Moravian settlement of
Lichtenfels came in view upon the right hand; it consists of a large,
sombre-looking wooden house, over which is a belfry, a smaller wooden
house, and about a dozen native huts, roofed with sods, and scarcely
distinguishable from the ground they stand on, even at a very short
distance. The land immediately behind is a barren rocky steep, now just
sufficiently denuded of snow to look desolate in the extreme. A strong
tide was setting out of the fiord, as we approached, and anchored in
the rocky little cove of Fiskernaes; here we were not only sheltered
from the wind, but the steep dark rocks within a ship's length on each
side of us, reflected a strong heat, whilst large mosquitoes lost no
time in paying us their annoying visits. This remote spot has been
visited by the Arctic voyagers, Captain Inglefield, R.N., and Dr. Kane,
U.S.N., and still more recently by Prince Napoleon. Dr. Kane's account
of his visit is full and very interesting. Cod-fishing was now in full
activity, and the few men not so employed had gone up the fiord to hunt
reindeer.
{FISKERNAES, AND ESQUIMAUX.}
The solitary dwelling-house belongs, of course, to the chief trader, and
is a model of cleanliness and order; built of wood, it exhibits all the
resources of the painter's art; the exterior is a dull red, the
window-frames are white, floors yellow, wooden partitions and low
ceilings pale blue. The lady of the house had resided here for about
eight years, and appeared to us to be, and acknowledged she was,
heartily tired of the solitude. She gave me coffee, and some seeds for
cultivation at our winter quarters; these were lettuce, spinach,
turnips, caraway and peas, the latter being the common kind used on
board ship; usually they have only produced leaves on this spot, but
once the young peas grew large enough for the table. I expressed a wish
to see the interior of an Esquimaux tent. Petersen pulled aside the thin
membrane of some animal, which hung across the doorway, and served to
exclude the wind, but admitted light, for, although past midnight, the
sun was up. Some seven or eight individuals lay within, closely packed
upon the ground; the heads of old and young, males and females, being
just visible above the common covering. Going to bed here, only means
lying down with your clothes on, upon a reindeer skin, wherever you can
find room, and pulling another fur-robe over you.
Fiskernaes appeared to be a sunny little nook, yet all the people we saw
there were suffering from colds and coughs, and many deaths had occurred
during the spring. The boys brought us handfuls of rough garnets, some
of them as large as walnuts, receiving with evident satisfaction
biscuits in exchange.
By next morning we were able to put to sea, and early on the day
following arrived off the large settlement of Godhaab; it is in the
"Gilbert Sound" of Davis, and appears in many old charts as Baal's
River. Almost adjoining Godhaab is the Moravian settlement of New
Herrnhut. Here it was that Hans Egede, the missionary father of
Greenland, established himself in 1721, and thus re-opened the
communication between Europe and Greenland, which had ceased upon the
extinction of its early Scandinavian settlers, in the 14th century.
{MORAVIAN MISSIONS.}
A few years after Egede's successful beginning the Moravian mission
still existing under the name of New Herrnhut was established. At
present the Moravians support four missions in Greenland; they are not
subject to the Danish authorities, but are not permitted in any way to
trade.
As we were about to enter the harbor, the Danish vessel--the sole object
of our visit--came out, so not a moment was lost in sending on board our
invalid and our letter-bag, and in landing our coasting pilot. This man
had brought us up from Frederickshaab for the very moderate sum of three
pounds; he was an Esquimaux, and, as the brother of poor Hans, Dr.
Kane's unhappy dog-driver, was received with favor amongst us, and soon
won our esteem by his quiet, obliging disposition, as also by his
ability in the discharge of his duty; he was so keen-sighted, and so
vig
|
have served previously, and yet a comparatively small
percentage are parole violators. In other words, the same argument
which is used against release on parole will apply more strongly to any
release whatever. Again, it must be remembered that the paroled man or
woman is under watchful care, while the person absolutely released is
subject to no restraint.
Out of every 100 persons reported January 1, 1919, as being on parole,
74 were making good. Of the remaining 26, barely two have committed
felonies. This record is better than Boards in some other States have
reported. Our Parole Officials are giving deep study to this subject
with a view to increasing the percentage of successful effort.
A. H. V.
COMMONWEALTH OF PENNSYLVANIA.
REPORT OF COMMISSION TO INVESTIGATE PENAL SYSTEMS.
_To the General Assembly_:
Your Commission duly appointed pursuant to Act of the Legislature, No.
409, 1917, “to investigate the prison systems and the organization
and management of correctional institutions within this Commonwealth
and elsewhere; to recommend such revision of the existing prison
system within this Commonwealth, and the laws pertaining to the
establishment, maintenance and regulation of State and County
correctional institutions within this Commonwealth as it shall deem
wise, and to report the same to the General Assembly at the session of
1919,” respectfully submits the following report of its proceedings,
together with its conclusions and recommendations and proposed bills
for carrying the same into effect.
The Commission was constituted as follows:
Fletcher W. Stites, Narberth, Chairman,
Alfred E. Jones, Uniontown,
Mrs. Martha P. Falconer, Darling P. O.,
Louis N. Robinson, Swarthmore,
Albert H. Votaw, Philadelphia.
On November 1, 1917, the members of the Commission met in the City
of Philadelphia, for the purpose of organization and assigned the
work of investigation which had been committed to it to the several
members thereof. On July 1, 1918, the Commission retained Dr. George
W. Kirchwey, of New York City, as its counsel to direct the subsequent
course of the investigation and to aid the Commission with his counsel
and advice.
I.
SCOPE OF INVESTIGATION.
The Commission was fortunate in having in its personnel as thus
constituted four members, including its counsel, who had through
long experience and previous investigations acquired considerable
information as to penal institutions and their management in this and
other States. The investigation covered:--
(1) A careful study and analysis of the laws governing penal conditions
and institutions in this Commonwealth;
(2) An examination of the six correctional institutions directly
controlled by the State, namely:
The Eastern Penitentiary, at Philadelphia;
The Western Penitentiary, at Pittsburgh;
The New Central Penitentiary, at Bellefonte;
The State Industrial Reformatory, at Huntingdon;
The Pennsylvania Training School, at Morganza;
The State Industrial Home for Women, at Muncy;
(3) A similar examination of the Glen Mills Schools--the Girls’
Department, Sleighton Farms, at Darlington, and the Boys’ Department at
Glen Mills;
(4) A similar examination of the Philadelphia House of Correction and
of the County Convict Prison at Holmesburg, Moyamensing Prison in
Philadelphia, the Allegheny County Workhouse at Hoboken and many other
county institutions;
(5) A study of the constitution, organization and functions of the
State Board of Public Charities, and specifically of those of its
Committee on Lunacy;
(6) A study of the powers and activities of the Prison Labor Commission
instituted under the Act of June 1, 1918;
(7) A careful survey of the entire history of the penal system of the
Commonwealth of Pennsylvania from the colonial period down to the
present time, based on the historical research of Professor Harry E.
Barnes of Clark University, Massachusetts;
(8) An investigation of significant correctional institutions in
several other States, notably in New York, New Jersey and Ohio.
To supplement and enlarge the range of these inquiries and studies, the
Commission was permitted to avail itself of the results of previous
investigations conducted by two of its members; on the Employment
and Compensation of Prisoners in Pennsylvania, by Professor Louis N.
Robinson, as Secretary of the Penal Commission of 1913-1915, and on the
county jails and workhouses, made periodically from 1914 to 1918 by
Albert H. Votaw, as Secretary of the Pennsylvania Prison Society.
The Commission desires to express its sense of deep obligation to
the officials and inspectors of prisons in this Commonwealth for the
courtesy and hospitality extended to its members in the course of their
investigations. It also acknowledges its indebtedness to the Secretary
and members of the Board of Public Charities and to the Secretary of
the Public Charities Association for their helpful co-operation.
The Commission has heretofore submitted to the Governor two preliminary
reports, one a Special Emergency Report on Prison Labor, bearing date
September 1, 1918, and a special report on the State Industrial Home
for Women, under date of September 15, 1918, both of which are hereto
appended.
While both these reports were called out by war emergencies, the
former by the dearth of labor power to man the war industries of
the Commonwealth, the latter by the need of providing a place for
the detention and treatment of the large number of dissolute women
convicted of offenses against Federal and State laws enacted for the
protection of the soldiers in the training camps--the Commission
believes that they are still pertinent and that the recommendations
which they contain should form a part of any constructive scheme for
the improvement of the penal system of the Commonwealth.
II.
DEVELOPMENT OF PENAL SYSTEM OF PENNSYLVANIA.
The most inspiring and significant chapter in the history of penology
is not the achievement of John Howard in redeeming the common gaols
of England from the degradation into which they had fallen, nor of
Lord Romilly in his lifelong struggle against the barbarities of the
English penal laws, but the leadership which for more than a century
the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania gave to the world both in prison
reform and in the amelioration of the penal code. The two former were
the revolt of sensitive and humane natures against hoary abuses;
but the latter was all this and something more. It was a bold and
imaginative reconstruction of the whole basis of penal discipline. As
far back as the last quarter of the seventeenth century the Quaker
colonists of Pennsylvania introduced for the first time the practice
of employing imprisonment at hard labor as the ordinary method of
punishing anti-social action. After the reversion of the American
colonies for fifty years to the barbarous criminal jurisprudence of the
mother country, Pennsylvania was the first State, the first community
in the world, to break with this system and to substitute imprisonment
for the various brutal and degrading types of corporal punishment.
The Walnut Street Jail in Philadelphia, in 1790, was the earliest
institution in America in which these more enlightened principles were
put into practice. From this second beginning, for a period of forty
years, Pennsylvania was elaborating and perfecting the first of the two
great systems of penal administration which were destined to dominate
the penology of the civilized world during the nineteenth century--the
separate confinement of malefactors. Visited, admired and imitated
by large numbers of eminent and enthusiastic European penologists,
the Eastern Penitentiary at Cherry Hill was the pivotal point linking
American and European penology for more than a generation after 1830.
Then followed that long period of inertia, of lassitude, of marking
time, which is so apt to succeed to a period of ardent reforming energy
and which to this very day has maintained its spell over the State and
the Nation.
Not that there have not in the last half century been notable
improvements in the theory and practice of penal administration,
some of them bold enough to bring America from time to time into the
forefront of interest and example to the penologists of the Old World,
but in most of these the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania has been content
to play a secondary role. Throughout this era of slackened energy she
has not cared or dared to initiate, to lead, to “carry on,” but has
followed belatedly and afar off the progress of other States. Examples
of this are the Auburn congregate system, which divided with the
Pennsylvania system of solitary confinement the interest of European
as well as of American penologists, and which was adopted in the
Western Penitentiary in 1869, a full generation after its establishment
in New York State, and which has only recently conquered the parent
institution on Cherry Hill; the justly famous Elmira experiment
of progressive classification and industrial training of inmates
embodied in the Huntingdon Reformatory in 1889, and the long-promised
reformatory for women at Muncy, which, six years after its creation by
legislative action, has not yet been rendered available for the purpose
for which it was designed.
The first step in the development of an intelligent conception of
delinquency and its treatment came not in an accurate conception of
the nature of crime and its causes, but in a clearer and more correct
notion of the function of punishment. By 1790 the element of deterrence
in punishment was recognized and emphasized. The element of reformation
was a cardinal point in the theory and practice of the Philadelphia
Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons, and this
Society did its best to infuse this doctrine into the Pennsylvania
system of prison administration. Before 1830 it was very generally
asserted that reformation, as well as deterrence and social revenge,
was to be regarded as a chief aim of punishment, though the offender
was still regarded as an unregenerate free moral agent.
This theory of crime received a severe shock in the “forties” from the
investigations of Dorothea L. Dix and others, who showed the great
prevalence of insanity and idiocy among the delinquent classes. It
could scarcely be denied even by the traditional jurists that the
exercise of free will was likely to be seriously impeded by insanity or
feeble-mindedness. From 1850 to the beginning of the present century
the most notable advances toward a more intelligent conception of crime
and its treatment consisted in the gradual but definite triumph of the
notion of detention and punishment as agencies for reformation rather
than as instruments of social revenge.
For more than a century of its history the penal, reformatory and
correctional institutions of Pennsylvania were limited to the county
jails and the few and scattered workhouses, which were erected mainly
in conjunction with the almshouses. In the jails there could be no
approach to anything like a differentiated treatment of delinquents.
In them were herded promiscuously those imprisoned for debt, those
convicted of crime and those accused or held as witnesses; those of all
ages and both sexes; those convicted of all categories and grades of
crime punishable by imprisonment; those of all mental states--normal,
feeble-minded, neurotic, psychotic, epileptic. The few colonial
workhouses were employed as little more than an agency for suppressing
vagrancy.
The first step in a differentiated treatment of crime and criminals
came with the erection of a semi-state prison in the Walnut Street
Jail in 1789-90. This provided for a partial differentiation between
those convicted of the more serious crimes and those convicted of
petty offenses or awaiting trial. It did not however, attempt any
scientific differentiation on the basis of age, sex or mental state.
Children and adults, male and female, sane and insane, were confined
in contiguity. The opening of the State penitentiaries at Allegheny
and Philadelphia in 1826 and 1829, with their fundamental principle of
solitary confinement, carried further the process of differentiation,
but still continued to apply the same general type of treatment to all
incarcerated inmates. It was a system of separation rather than of a
differentiated treatment of special types of prisoners.
The second important development in the direction of specialization
in the provision of institutional treatment of delinquents appeared
in the establishment of a House of Refuge for juvenile delinquents in
Philadelphia in 1828. Though this was at first a private rather than
a State institution and was of very limited capacity, it marked an
epoch in the progress of Pennsylvania penology by making possible some
elementary differentiation on the basis of age, degree of criminality
and relative susceptibility to reformation. The next attempt at further
differentiation came with the erection of the State Hospital for
the Insane at Harrisburg between 1841 and 1851, chiefly as a result
of the agitation initiated by Dorothea L. Dix. This and the other
State hospitals for the insane, subsequently erected, provided for a
treatment of the more important types of mental disorder, though no
adequate provision was made for removing the insane from the prison.
Not until 1905 was an act passed providing for the erection of a State
hospital for the criminal insane at Fairview which was opened in 1912.
During the quarter of a century following 1850 there was an active
agitation to provide a means of differentiating the treatment of
criminals on the basis of age, sex and degree of criminality. The first
important achievement in this direction was the further development
of reform schools for juvenile delinquents through the removal and
enlargement of the Philadelphia House of Refuge in 1850-54 and the
erection of the Western House of Refuge at Allegheny during the same
period. Juvenile delinquents, if petty offenders, could thereafter be
removed from their degrading confinement in the state prison or worse
county jails and receive the properly specialized treatment which their
circumstances demanded. No provision for the differentiated treatment
of the less definite and confirmed types of adult delinquents was made
until the opening of the reformatory for men at Huntingdon in 1889
and the authorization of the State Industrial Home for Women at Muncy
in 1913. The provision of reformatories and juvenile correctional
institutions marked a double process of differentiation, in that these
institutions not only called for a diversity of treatment according to
age, sex and degree of criminality, but also from the fact that they
were clearly differentiated from the State prisons and the county jails
in making reformation rather than punishment or detention their chief
aims.
Along with this development of a properly differentiated system
of treating the delinquent population, has gone the growth of
specialized institutions for dealing with the closely related class
of defectives, which was once treated indiscriminately along with the
delinquent classes when its members were guilty of criminal action.
The State institution for feeble-minded at Polk, opened in 1893, and
at Spring City, provided by an act of 1903, and the State Village
for Feeble-minded Women at Laurelton, not yet available for use, are
designed to furnish scientific treatment for large numbers of those
who would today be confined in the state prisons or county jails, if
the ideas and institutions of 1840 prevailed. Even an institution for
inebriates was contemplated in an act of 1913.
But this vital and all important process of the differentiation,
classification and specialized treatment of the delinquent and
defective classes has now proceeded far beyond that most elementary
stage of furnishing separate institutions for dealing with the most
general classes of delinquents and defectives. It has been found
that the terms defective, insane and criminal have only a legal
significance and are practically useless when involving the problem
of exact scientific analysis and treatment. Each general class of
delinquent boys, of defective girls or of criminal adults, for
instance, is made up of distinguishable and distinct types which demand
specialized treatment in the same way that it is required for one
general class as distinguished from another. Though it is as yet very
imperfectly developed, the present tendency is for each institution to
differentiate into a number of specialized departments, each designed
to provide the proper treatment for one of these types.
Finally, within the last decade beginnings have been made in
what is likely to be an important future development, namely the
non-institutional care of the less pronounced and confirmed types of
delinquents, particularly of delinquent minors. The developments along
this line have, up to the present, consisted chiefly in the adoption
of parole systems in all the State penal, reformatory and correctional
institutions and in a more liberal use of the suspended sentence
and probation. The recently established Municipal Probation Court
of Philadelphia is a pioneer in Pennsylvania in this promising new
development in the preventive treatment of the less confirmed type of
delinquents.
Looking at the whole matter as it stands today, it cannot be said
that conditions in Pennsylvania are in any material respect either
better or worse than in other progressive States, except in the one
matter of the useful employment of the convict population. Here, as
elsewhere, some lucky chance has placed a man or a woman of exceptional
qualifications at the head of an institution, one who has by his strong
personal initiative made the best of a bad situation, as in the case of
the Eastern Penitentiary, or who has, with something akin to genius,
seized upon a new opportunity, as in the case of the Girls’ School at
Darlington and the new Penitentiary foundation at Bellefonte. But these
are sporadic and exceptional developments and have furnished no new
principle of a revolutionary character to mark the dawn of a new era in
penal administration.
Meanwhile the hopeless and demoralizing idleness to which most of
the inmates of the Eastern Penitentiary and of most of the county
institutions of the Commonwealth are doomed, is a spectacle in which
the people of Pennsylvania can take nothing but shame. But even if this
is remedied, as it should be at once by drastic legislative action,
Pennsylvania will have done no more than reach the level of penological
theory of the Quaker innovators of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. The step is an imperative one, but it will not restore to
the Commonwealth the proud position of leadership which once was hers,
which is still, by virtue of past achievements and by common fame,
attributed to her.
While we have thus been dreaming, tardily and ineffectually putting
into effect the aspirations of a long-distant past, a new penology has
come into being, based not on humanitarian sentiment or on “the common
sense of most,” but on the scientific study of the delinquent and his
environment. New sciences of psychology, psychiatry and sociology
have been forged to meet the conditions of the new day and these have
furnished us with a new basis for penological experimentation. We
have learned that the criminal is not merely a person who has in the
exercise of an unfettered will chosen the evil rather than the good,
but a person of complex personality shaped by heredity and environment
to what he is, none the less a menace to society than the older
conception made him, not the less requiring restraint and correction,
but demanding and deserving individual treatment according to the
nature which has been developed in him. We have learned from recent
scientific study of the most rigorous and trustworthy sort that from
50 to 60 per cent. of the inmates of our correctional institutions
are abnormal--feeble-minded, insane, psychopathic--to the point of
irresponsibility, to all intents and purposes the same kind of people
that fill our hospitals for the insane and institutions for the
feeble-minded. We have also learned, from sociological case studies,
that a very large proportion of those that the psychiatrist would class
as normal are the victims of neglected childhood and of the depraving
influences of the institutions in which they have spent a great part of
their young lives.
It seems clear that this new knowledge makes for a new classification,
based not, like that of the Elmira system, on behavior in confinement,
nor, like that of the current penology, on the character of the crime
committed, but on the exact study of the individual and that the
treatment accorded him must be adapted to the results of such study.
Here, then, is the new opportunity for a further advance out of this
slough of despond--an opportunity not inferior to that which this
Commonwealth so superbly grasped in its heroic youth--to bring its
penal administration into conformity with the newer conceptions of
delinquency. Tinkering the old machine is not enough. It must be
remodeled altogether. Adding to the powers of a board of inspectors
here, curbing them there, setting up new boards and commissions to
direct the doing of this, to restrain the doing of that--all these
are but a part of the old game, which will after all continue to be
played in very much the old perfunctory way. What is demanded is a
genuine reconstruction of the penal system of the Commonwealth, one
which shall, with as little disturbance to the existing management of
the several institutions as possible, put at their service all the
resources of the new knowledge of crime and its treatment. It is the
purpose of this report to suggest the lines of this future development
of our penal system.
III.
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS OF PRESENT PENAL SYSTEM.
As the foregoing outline indicates, the several State institutions of
a penal, correctional and reformatory character, with the two Glen
Mills Schools (which, though largely under private management, are
essentially public institutions) have been developed at different
times, under the influence of changing conceptions of social
responsibility for different types of offenders. As a result of this
circumstance each is separately managed by a board of inspectors or
managers, which exercises complete control over the policy of the
institution to which its authority extends. This Board appoints the
Warden or Superintendent, fixes his or her compensation, determines
the industrial and educational policy of the institution and, under
the authority of the Legislature, disburses the funds appropriated
for its maintenance. The disciplinary policy of the institution is
almost invariably entrusted to the Warden or Superintendent and,
as is natural, if that official happens to be a person of strong
individuality and initiative, his policy in practice, if not in theory,
governs the entire administration. Nowhere is there a centralized
authority exercising a general control or an effective influence. The
only approach to such a general agency is the State Board of Public
Charities, which may investigate and require the submission of an
annual report, and the Prison Labor Commission, which exercises a
general supervision over the industries of the two penitentiaries and
the Huntingdon Reformatory, but which has no effective power to carry
its plans into execution. There is, accordingly, no uniform policy,
even in the case of institutions like the two Glen Mills schools,
which have a similar type of inmates and an identical aim, nor in the
case of all the institutions under consideration in matters where
their problems and needs are the same. That there are advantages in
this policy of separate control cannot be denied. It gives to an
energetic and progressive superintendent or board of managers a degree
of initiative in reform and experimentation which, under a highly
centralized control of all the institutions, it would be difficult to
secure. On the other hand it may have the effect of depriving the
individual institution, because of its poverty or because of the
reactionary character of its administration, of the benefits of an
advance which may have been made elsewhere. There could not be a better
illustration of the unevenness of development resulting from this lack
of co-ordination in the Pennsylvania prison system than the fact that
the Eastern Penitentiary was compelled to wait for the initiative of
its present Warden for the partial adoption of the congregate system,
which had for forty years existed in the Western Penitentiary, and
which had everywhere demonstrated its superiority over the system of
solitary confinement.
Upon the whole, however, what strikes the thoughtful observer is not
the diversity of policy and management among these institutions,
even where they have avowedly different aims, but their conformity
to a common type, and that the prison type. With only two
exceptions--Sleighton Farms and the Training School at Morganza--the
persistent shadow of the Penitentiary rests upon them all. It is true
that in the new Central Penitentiary on its broad acreage at Bellefonte
and in the Eastern Penitentiary, so far as the physical and industrial
conditions render possible, the shadow has been lifted, but it is safe
to say of the penal system of the State as a whole, that it is still
too much dominated by the ancient ideal of demonstrating to the inmates
that “the way of the transgressor is hard.” Even in institutions of a
purely reformatory character, while they leave little to be desired
in the way of healthful conditions of living, orderly administration
and educational opportunities, the reformation of the wrong-doer is
still too much sought through a system of stern repression, of “iron
discipline”--a system which, as all experience shows, defeats its end
by crushing out the finer elements of character on which the redemption
of the individual must depend. An almost invariable incident of this
type of disciplinary control is the persistence of the policy of
securing good conduct through punishment--often severe punishment
for trivial offenses--rather than by the more enlightened and humane
method of holding out incentives to good behavior, either by the grant
of special privileges or by putting on the inmates themselves the
responsibility for the good behavior of all.
Other instances of the persistence of the traditional attitude toward
the offender are the almost complete lack throughout our penal system
of a scientific, balanced ration, such as has in the experience of
prison administrators in other States, as notably at Sing Sing Prison
in 1916, and more recently in our army camps, demonstrated the value
both for health and efficiency and from the point of view of economy
of a scientific management of the problem of food supply for large
masses of men; the general indifference to outdoor recreation and
exercise, so essential to the health and morale of the inmate body;
the meagre provision for any education worthy of the name; the all but
complete lack of comprehensive and well rounded systems of vocational
or industrial training, on which the efficiency of prison labor and the
ability of the inmates to “make good” in the world of industry after
their release so largely depends; the demoralizing idleness which is
still after three decades of effort the most marked characteristic of
our prison system; and, finally, the insufficient care for the physical
and mental health of the inmates of our correctional institutions,
which still for the most part mingle indiscriminately together the
tuberculous and syphilitic with those who are sound in body and the
insane, psychopathic and defective with those who are sound in mind.
Many of these conditions which continue to put the brand of the prison
on the inmates of our correctional institutions are doubtless due to
the survival of the Bastille type of prison architecture, which is
exemplified in the Eastern and Western Penitentiaries and in such
structures as Moyamensing Prison in Philadelphia, the Convict Prison at
Holmesburg, the Philadelphia House of Correction and many others. It is
scarcely too much to say that no human being is vile enough to deserve
confinement in such a place or dangerous enough to need it. Even the
most unbending of the old type of prison official will concede that
80 per cent. of the inmates neither need nor deserve to be confined
behind triple bars of steel or in cells like catacombs or within walls
like those of Egyptian tombs. Keepers and inmates alike lose half their
humanity by confinement in these grim and forbidding structures. No
reforming influence however humane and generous, can long survive in
their atmosphere.
Public opinion is at last moving away from this antiquated type of
prison architecture to the newer type represented in the honor prison
at New Hampton Farms in New York and in our Commonwealth in the cottage
colonies at Sleighton Farms, Glen Mills, Morganza, and Muncy. The
change which comes over the men who are transferred from the Western
Penitentiary to the new prison site in Centre County is a sufficient
commentary on the older type of prison, and demonstrates beyond
peradventure the duty of affording to all of our convict population a
similar life of freedom and opportunity. This result, so desirable from
every point of view, could in large measure be attained in a short time
by equipping the Eastern Penitentiary with a suitable area of farm land
in the Eastern Section of the State and by making immediate provision
for the institution of State industrial farms for the convicts confined
in the county prisons, as is recommended elsewhere in this report.
IV.
PRISON LABOR.
The conditions existing in the penal institutions of the Commonwealth
with respect to the employment of the inmates in useful industry
have been so fully set forth in the Emergency Report submitted by
the Commission to the Governor in September last (a copy of which is
annexed to this report) and in the comprehensive study of the problem
by the Penal Commission of 1913-1915 (submitted to the General Assembly
under date of February 15, 1915) that it is not deemed necessary to go
into the matter at length in this place. It suffices to call attention
to the fact that the conditions described in those reports have not in
any material respect been improved. Of approximately 10,000 inmates
in the penal and correctional institutions of the State, less than
one-half are usefully employed, not more than one-fourth in productive
labor. The economic waste of such a system extended over a century is
scarcely less appalling than its inhumanity. By the law a large part of
this interminable procession of offending and suffering humanity has
been condemned to hard labor. In actual practice nearly all of it has
been doomed to wasteful and demoralizing idleness.
The law of June 1, 1915, “providing a system of employment and
compensation for the inmates of the Eastern Penitentiary, Western
Penitentiary and the Pennsylvania Industrial Reformatory at Huntingdon”
and creating a Prison Labor Commission to carry its provisions into
effect, has proved almost wholly inoperative, owing primarily to the
failure of the Legislature to provide for the compulsory purchase
of prison-made goods by the Commonwealth or the political divisions
thereof or by public institutions. As a consequence, out of a total
population of 3200 in the three institutions to which the authority of
the Commission extends, at the close of the year 1918 only 169 were
employed under the direction of the Commission. These were distributed
as follows:--
Eastern Penitentiary, population 1,371
Caning chairs 16
Cigarmaking 11
Shoemaking 42
Knitting hosiery 38
----- 107
Absolutely idle 839
Western Penitentiary, population 720
Broommaking 10
Brushmaking 2
Weaving 18
----- 30
Absolutely idle 393
Huntingdon Reformatory, population 579
Auto-tagmaking 32
Whether considered as a relief from the crushing burden of expense
that our penal establishments entail, or as a remedy for the physical
and moral degeneration resulting from enforced idleness, or as a means
to equip the inmates for lives of industry and usefulness after their
release, a system of prison labor which produces the results set forth
in these figures stands self condemned.
To make the plan embodied in the law of 1915 effective, it should
further provide:
(1) That municipalities as well as the Commonwealth and the political
divisions thereof and all public institutions shall be required, as
far as may be practicable, to supply their needs from the labor of the
penal and correctional institutions;
(2) That the authority of the Commission or of any body in which its
powers may be vested shall extend to the reformatory institutions at
Darlington, Glen Mills, Morganza and Muncy and to all State, county
and municipal institutions of a penal or correctional character;
(3) That the power of such Commission or body to regulate prison
industry be extended to all forms of labor activity of the inmates of
such institutions, including farming, roadmaking, land reclamation,
forestry, etc.;
(4) That such Commission or body be empowered to determine the
compensation of prisoners for industrial and other work performed by
them and the method of applying such compensation to the use of such
prisoners or their dependents;
(5) That the strict “State use” plan be modified by permitting the sale
in the open market, at not less than the market price, of any surplus
product resulting from the labor of the inmates over and above the
product disposed of as provided in the act.
V.
THE COUNTY PRISONS.
In Pennsylvania, as in most, if not all, of the other States of the
Union, the county jail is the despair of those who look for a better
day in the treatment of the wrong-doer. The admiration which our
experiments in the reformatory treatment of the young have excited
in eminent foreign penologists has turned to loathing when their
attention was directed to the county jails. Sir Evelyn Ruggles-Brise,
the distinguished head of the English prison system, in an article
published a few months after his visit to this country in 1910,
described them in the following terms:
“In these gaols it is hardly too much to say that many of the
features linger which called forth the wrath and indignation
of the great Howard at the end of the eighteenth century.
Promiscuity, unsanitary conditions, absence of supervision,
idleness and corruption--these remain the features in many
places. Even the ‘fee’ system is still in vogue. The gaolers are
still paid by fees for the support of prisoners, and commitments
to gaol are common when some other disposition of the case would
have been imposed had not the commitment yielded a fee to the
sheriff, who is usually in charge of the gaol. In many gaols
there are not facilities for medical examination on reception,
for ventilation, for exercise, or for bathing.... The foreign
delegates were amazed at this startling inconsistency between the
management of the common gaols and that of the State prisons and
State reformatories. The evils to which I refer are well known
and deplored by that body of earnest and devoted men and women in
all sections of American society with whose lofty ideals on the
subject of prison reform and generous aspirations for the humane
treatment of the prisoner, the Washington Congress made us every
day familiar, but they seem helpless and almost hopeless....
I was appealed to by leading men in more than one State, as
British representative, to publicly condemn the system, and this
I did, at a risk of giving considerable offense. Until the abuses
of the gaol system are removed, it is impossible for America to
have assigned to her by general consent a place in the vanguard
of progress in the domain of ‘_la science penitentiaire_.’”
Your Commission desires to submit as its considered judgment that the
foregoing statement does no injustice to many of the county prisons of
this Commonwealth, and that the Legislature can do no greater service,
nor one that will reflect more credit on the Commonwealth, than to
sweep away the entire county jail system without delay.
Attention has been called elsewhere in this report to the deplorable
conditions of idleness which prevail in the prisons of our
Commonwealth. These conditions are at their worst in the county
institutions. In the last six years the average daily number of
prisoners in the county jails of the Commonwealth has been about 6500.
Only about one-fourth of these have some form of employment other than
domestic service. But when all of the returns are in with regard to the
work accomplished, the number of days spent in complete idleness in the
course of a year will average more than one million. If we regard the
labor of the prisoners as worth fifty cents a day, the amount of waste
thus exceeds $500,000 annually.
In order to obviate this condition of affairs, the General Assembly
in 1917 passed an Act (No. 337, P. L. 1917), vesting in the officers
in charge of county prisons the privilege of allowing the prisoners
to work on county and poorhouse farms. Although only twenty-seven
counties have taken advantage of this Act, its results have been very
beneficial. The workers have improved in health, strength and morale,
and the produce of their labor has been of material help in the
up-keep of the institutions. Unfortunately, the operation of this Act
terminates with the close of the war.
A more comprehensive Act was proposed by the Penal Commission of
1913-1915, which recommended the establishment of six industrial farms
to be controlled by the State, to which all persons convicted of crime
or misdemeanor, and now committed to county institutions, should
hereafter be sent. This admirable measure was, however, amended in such
a way as to leave the initiative in the creation of such farms and
the control thereof to the County Commissioners of the nine groups of
counties into which the State was divided for the purpose (No.
|
You are Athenians; do you
know him?”
“Know him?” Cimon laughed heartily; “have we not left him at the wrestling
ground? Was not Democrates his schoolfellow once, his second self to-day?
And touching his beauty, his valour, his modesty,” the young man’s eyes
shone with loyal enthusiasm, “do not say ‘over-praised’ till you have seen
him.”
Simonides swelled with delight.
“Oh, lucky genius that cast me with you! Take me to him this moment.”
“He is so beset with admirers, his trainers are angry already; besides, he
is still at the wrestling ground.”
“But soon returns to his tents,” added Democrates, instantly; “and
Simonides—is Simonides. If Themistocles and Leonidas can see Glaucon, so
must the first poet of Hellas.”
“O dearest orator,” cried the little man, with an arm around his neck, “I
begin to love you already. Away this moment, that I may worship your new
divinity.”
“Come, then,” commanded Cimon, leading off with strides so long the bard
could hardly follow; “his tent is not distant: you shall see him, though
the trainers change to Gorgons.”
The “Precinct of Poseidon,” the great walled enclosure where were the
temples, porticos, and the stadium of the Isthmus, was quickly behind
them. They walked eastward along the sea-shore. The scene about was brisk
enough, had they heeded. A dozen chariots passed. Under every tall pine
along the way stood merchants’ booths, each with a goodly crowd. Now a
herd of brown goats came, the offering of a pious Phocian; now a band of
Aphrodite’s priestesses from Corinth whirled by in no overdecorous dance,
to a deafening noise of citharas and castanets. A soft breeze was sending
the brown-sailed fisher boats across the heaving bay. Straight before the
three spread the white stuccoed houses of Cenchræa, the eastern haven of
Corinth; far ahead in smooth semicircle rose the green crests of the
Argive mountains, while to their right upreared the steep lonely pyramid
of brown rock, Acro-Corinthus, the commanding citadel of the thriving
city. But above, beyond these, fairer than them all, spread the clear,
sun-shot azure of Hellas, the like whereof is not over any other land,
save as that land is girt by the crisp foam of the blue Ægean Sea.
So much for the picture, but Simonides, having seen it often, saw it not
at all, but plied the others with questions.
“So this Hermione of his is beautiful?”
“Like Aphrodite rising from the sea foam.” The answer came from
Democrates, who seemed to look away, avoiding the poet’s keen glance.
“And yet her father gave her to the son of his bitter enemy?”
“Hermippus of Eleusis is sensible. It is a fine thing to have the
handsomest man in Hellas for son-in-law.”
“And now to the great marvel—did Glaucon truly seek her not for dowry, nor
rank, but for sheer love?”
“Marriages for love are in fashion to-day,” said Democrates, with a side
glance at Cimon, whose sister Elpinice had just made a love match with
Callias the Rich, to the scandal of all the prudes in Athens.
“Then I meet marvels even in my old age. Another Odysseus and his
Penelope! And he is handsome, valiant, high-minded, with a wife his peer?
You raise my hopes too high. They will be dashed.”
“They will not,” protested Democrates, with every sign of loyalty; “turn
here: this lane in the pines leads to his tent. If we have praised too
much, doom us to the labours of Tantalus.”
But here their progress was stopped. A great knot of people were swarming
about a statue under a pine tree, and shrill, angry voices proclaimed not
trafficking, but a brawl.
CHAPTER II
THE ATHLETE
There was ceaseless coming and going outside the Precinct of Poseidon.
Following much the same path just taken by Simonides and his new friends,
two other men were walking, so deep in talk that they hardly heeded how
many made respectful way for them, or how many greeted them. The taller
and younger man, to be sure, returned every salute with a graceful
flourish of his hands, but in a mechanical way, and with eye fixed on his
companion.
The pair were markedly contrasted. The younger was in his early prime,
strong, well developed, and daintily dressed. His gestures were quick and
eloquent. His brown beard and hair were trimmed short to reveal a clear
olive face—hardly regular, but expressive and tinged with an extreme
subtilty. When he laughed, in a strange, silent way, it was to reveal fine
teeth, while his musical tongue ran on, never waiting for answer.
His comrade, however, answered little. He barely rose to the other’s
shoulder, but he had the chest and sinews of an ox. Graces there were
none. His face was a scarred ravine, half covered by scanty stubble. The
forehead was low. The eyes, gray and wise, twinkled from tufted eyebrows.
The long gray hair was tied about his forehead in a braid and held by a
golden circlet. The “chlamys” around his hips was purple but dirty. To his
companion’s glib Attic he returned only Doric monosyllables.
“Thus I have explained: if my plans prosper; if Corcyra and Syracuse send
aid; if Xerxes has trouble in provisioning his army, not merely can we
resist Persia, but conquer with ease. Am I too sanguine, Leonidas?”
“We shall see.”
“No doubt Xerxes will find his fleet untrustworthy. The Egyptian sailors
hate the Phœnicians. Therefore we can risk a sea fight.”
“No rashness, Themistocles.”
“Yes—it is dicing against the Fates, and the stake is the freedom of
Hellas. Still a battle must be risked. If we quit ourselves bravely, our
names shall be remembered as long as Agamemnon’s.”
“Or Priam’s?—his Troy was sacked.”
“And you, my dear king of Sparta, will of course move heaven and earth to
have your Ephors and Council somewhat more forward than of late in
preparing for war? We all count on you.”
“I will try.”
“Who can ask more? But now make an end to statecraft. We were speaking
about the pentathlon and the chances of—”
Here the same brawling voices that had arrested Simonides broke upon
Themistocles and Leonidas also. The cry “A fight!” was producing its
inevitable result. Scores of men, and those not the most aristocratic,
were running pell-mell whither so many had thronged already. In the
confusion scant reverence was paid the king of Sparta and the first
statesman of Athens, who were thrust unceremoniously aside and were barely
witnesses of what followed.
The outcry was begun, after-report had it, by a Sicyonian bronze-dealer
finding a small but valuable lamp missing from the table whereon he showed
his wares. Among the dozen odd persons pressing about the booth his eye
singled out a slight, handsome boy in Oriental dress; and since Syrian
serving-lads were proverbially light-fingered, the Sicyonian jumped
quickly at his conclusion.
“Seize the Barbarian thief!” had been his shout as he leaped and snatched
the alleged culprit’s mantle. The boy escaped easily by the frailness of
his dress, which tore in the merchant’s hands; but a score of bystanders
seized the fugitive and dragged him back to the Sicyonian, whose order to
“search!” would have been promptly obeyed; but at this instant he stumbled
over the missing lamp on the ground before the table, whence probably it
had fallen. The bronze-dealer was now mollified, and would willingly have
released the lad, but a Spartan bystander was more zealous.
“Here’s a Barbarian thief and spy!” he began bellowing; “he dropped the
lamp when he was detected! Have him to the temple and to the wardens of
the games!”
The magic word “spy” let loose the tongues and passions of every man
within hearing. The unfortunate lad was seized again and jostled rudely,
while questions rattled over him like hailstones.
“Whose slave are you? Why here? Where’s your master? Where did you get
that outlandish dress and gold-laced turban? Confess, confess,—or it’ll be
whipped out of you! What villany are you up to?”
If the prisoner had understood Greek,—which was doubtful,—he could scarce
have comprehended this babel. He struggled vainly; tears started to his
eyes. Then he committed a blunder. Not attempting a protest, he thrust a
small hand into his crimson belt and drew forth a handful of gold as bribe
for release.
“A slave with ten darics!” bawled the officious Spartan, never relaxing
his grip. “Hark you, friends, it’s plain as day. Dexippus of Corinth has a
Syrian lad like this. The young scoundrel’s robbed his master and is
running away.”
“That’s it! A runaway! To the temple with him!” chimed a dozen. The
prisoner’s outcries were drowned. He would have been swept off in ungentle
custody had not a strong hand intervened in his favor.
“A moment, good citizens,” called a voice in clear Attic. “Release this
lad. I know Dexippus’s slave; he’s no such fellow.”
The others, low-browed Spartans mostly, turned, ill-pleased at the
interruption of an Athenian, but shrank a step as a name went among them.
“Castor and Pollux—it’s Glaucon the Beautiful!”
With two thrusts of impetuous elbows, the young man was at the assailed
lad’s side. The newcomer was indeed a sight for gods. Beauty and power
seemed wholly met in a figure of perfect symmetry and strength. A face of
fine regularity, a chiselled profile, smooth cheeks, deep blue eyes, a
crown of closely cropped auburn hair, a chin neither weak nor stern, a
skin burnt brown by the sun of the wrestling schools—these were parts of
the picture, and the whole was how much fairer than any part! Aroused now,
he stood with head cast back and a scarlet cloak shaking gracefully from
his shoulders.
“Unhand the lad!” he repeated.
For a moment, compelled by his beauty, the Spartans yielded. The Oriental
pressed against his protector; but the affair was not to end so easily.
“Hark you, Sir Athenian,” rejoined the Spartan leader, “don’t presume on
your good looks. Our Lycon will mar them all to-morrow. Here’s Dexippus’s
slave or else a Barbarian spy: in either case to the temple with him, and
don’t you hinder.”
He plucked at the boy’s girdle; but the athlete extended one slim hand,
seized the Spartan’s arm, and with lightning dexterity laid the busybody
flat on Mother Earth. He staggered upward, raging and calling on his
fellows.
“Sparta insulted by Athens! Vengeance, men of Lacedæmon! Fists! Fists!”
The fate of the Oriental was forgotten in the storm of patriotic fury that
followed. Fortunately no one had a weapon. Half a dozen burly Laconians
precipitated themselves without concert or order upon the athlete. He was
hidden a moment in the rush of flapping gowns and tossing arms. Then like
a rock out of the angry sea shone his golden head, as he shook off the
attack. Two men were on their backs, howling. The others stood at
respectful distance, cursing and meditating another rush. An Athenian
pottery merchant from a neighbouring booth began trumpeting through his
hands.
“Men of Athens, this way!”
His numerous countrymen came scampering from far and wide. Men snatched up
stones and commenced snapping off pine boughs for clubs. The athlete,
centre of all this din, stood smiling, with his glorious head held high,
his eyes alight with the mere joy of battle. He held out his arms. Both
pose and face spoke as clearly as words,—“Prove me!”
“Sparta is insulted. Away with the braggart!” the Laconians were
clamouring. The Athenians answered in kind. Already a dark sailor was
drawing a dirk. Everything promised broken heads, and perhaps blood, when
Leonidas and his friend,—by laying about them with their staves,—won their
way to the front. The king dashed his staff upon the shoulder of a
strapping Laconian who was just hurling himself on Glaucon.
“Fools! Hold!” roared Leonidas, and the moment the throng saw what
newcomers they faced, Athenian and Spartan let their arms drop and stood
sheepish and silent. Themistocles instantly stepped forward and held up
his hand. His voice, trumpet-clear, rang out among the pines. In three
sentences he dissolved the tumult.
“Fellow-Hellenes, do not let Dame Discord make sport of you. I saw all
that befell. It is only an unlucky misunderstanding. You are quite
satisfied, I am sure, Master Bronze-Dealer?”
The Sicyonian, who saw in a riot the ruin of his evening’s trade, nodded
gladly.
“He says there was no thieving, and he is entirely satisfied. He thanks
you for your friendly zeal. The Oriental was not Dexippus’s slave, and
Xerxes does not need such boys for spies. I am certain Glaucon would not
insult Sparta. So let us part without bad blood, and await the judgment of
the god in the contest to-morrow.”
Not a voice answered him. The crash of music from the sacrificial embassy
of Syracuse diverted everybody’s attention; most of the company streamed
away to follow the flower-decked chariots and cattle back to the temple.
Themistocles and Leonidas were left almost alone to approach the athlete.
“You are ever Glaucon the Fortunate,” laughed Themistocles; “had we not
chanced this way, what would not have befallen?”
“Ah, it was delightful,” rejoined the athlete, his eyes still kindled;
“the shock, the striving, the putting one’s own strength and will against
many and feeling ‘I am the stronger.’ ”
“Delightful, no doubt” replied the statesman, “though Zeus spare me
fighting one against ten! But what god possessed you to meddle in this
brawl, and imperil all chances for to-morrow?”
“I was returning from practice at the palæstra. I saw the lad beset and
knew he was not Dexippus’s slave. I ran to help him. I thought no more
about it.”
“And risked everything for a sly-eyed Oriental. Where is the rascal?”
But the lad—author of the commotion—had disappeared completely.
“Behold his fair gratitude to his rescuer,” cried Themistocles, sourly,
and then he turned to Leonidas. “Well, very noble king of Sparta, you were
asking to see Glaucon and judge his chances in the pentathlon. Your
Laconians have just proved him; are you satisfied?”
But the king, without a word of greeting, ran his eyes over the athlete
from head to heel, then blurted out his verdict:
“Too pretty.”
Glaucon blushed like a maid. Themistocles threw up his hands in
deprecation.
“But were not Achilles and many another hero beautiful as brave? Does not
Homer call them so many times ‘godlike’?”
“Poetry doesn’t win the pentathlon,” retorted the king; then suddenly he
seized the athlete’s right arm near the shoulder. The muscles cracked.
Glaucon did not wince. The king dropped the arm with a “_Euge!_” then
extended his own hand, the fingers half closed, and ordered, “Open.”
One long minute, just as Simonides and his companions approached, Athenian
and Spartan stood face to face, hand locked in hand, while Glaucon’s
forehead grew redder, not with blushing. Then blood rushed to the king’s
brow also. His fingers were crimson. They had been forced open.
“_Euge!_” cried the king, again; then, to Themistocles, “He will do.”
Whereupon, as if satisfied in his object and averse to further dalliance,
he gave Cimon and his companions the stiffest of nods and deliberately
turned on his heel. Speech was too precious coin for him to be wasted on
mere adieus. Only over his shoulder he cast at Glaucon a curt mandate.
“I hate Lycon. Grind his bones.”
Themistocles, however, lingered a moment to greet Simonides. The little
poet was delighted, despite overweening hopes, at the manly beauty yet
modesty of the athlete, and being a man who kept his thoughts always near
his tongue, made Glaucon blush more manfully than ever.
“Master Simonides is overkind,” had ventured the athlete; “but I am sure
his praise is only polite compliment.”
“What misunderstanding!” ran on the poet. “How you pain me! I truly
desired to ask a question. Is it not a great delight to know that so many
people are gladdened just by looking on you?”
“How dare I answer? If ‘no,’ I contradict you—very rude. If ‘yes,’ I
praise myself—far ruder.”
“Cleverly turned. The face of Paris, the strength of Achilles, the wit of
Periander, all met in one body;” but seeing the athlete’s confusion more
profound than ever, the Cean cut short. “Heracles! if my tongue wounds
you, lo! it’s clapped back in its sheath; I’ll be revenged in an ode of
fifty iambs on your victory. For that you will conquer, neither I nor any
sane man in Hellas has the least doubt. Are you not confident, dear
Athenian?”
“I am confident in the justice of the gods, noble Simonides,” said the
athlete, half childishly, half in deep seriousness.
“Well you may be. The gods are usually ‘just’ to such as you. It’s we
graybeards that Tyche, ‘Lady Fortune,’ grows tired of helping.”
“Perhaps!” Glaucon passed his hand across his eyes with a dreamy gesture.
“Yet sometimes I almost say, ‘Welcome a misfortune, if not too terrible,’
just to ward off the god’s jealousy of too great prosperity. In all
things, save my father’s anger, I have prospered. To-morrow I can appease
that, too. Yet you know Solon’s saying, ‘Call no man fortunate till he is
dead.’ ”
Simonides was charmed at this frank confession on first acquaintance.
“Yes, but even one of the Seven Sages can err.”
“I do not know. I only hope—”
“Hush, Glaucon,” admonished Democrates. “There’s no worse dinner before a
contest than one of flighty thoughts. When safe in Athens—”
“In Eleusis you mean,” corrected the athlete.
“Pest take you,” cried Cimon; “you say Eleusis because there is Hermione.
But make this day-dreaming end ere you come to grips with Lycon.”
“He will awaken,” smiled Themistocles. Then, with another gracious nod to
Simonides, the statesman hastened after Leonidas, leaving the three young
men and the poet to go to Glaucon’s tent in the pine grove.
“And why should Leonidas wish Glaucon to grind the bones of the champion
of Sparta?” asked Cimon, curiously.
“Quickly answered,” replied Simonides, who knew half the persons of the
nobility in Hellas; “first, Lycon is of the rival kingly house at Sparta;
second, he’s suspected of ‘Medizing,’ of favouring Persia.”
“I’ve heard that story of ‘Medizing,’ ” interrupted Democrates, promptly;
“I can assure you it is not true.”
“Enough if he’s suspected,” cried the uncompromising son of Miltiades;
“honest Hellenes should not even be blown upon in times like this. Another
reason then for hating him—”
“Peace!” ordered Glaucon, as if starting from a long revery, and with a
sweep of his wonderful hands; “let the Medes, the Persians, and their war
wait. For me the only war is the pentathlon,—and then by Zeus’s favour the
victory, the glory, the return to Eleusis! Ah—wish me joy!”
“Verily, the man is mad,” reflected the poet; “he lives in his own bright
world, sufficient to himself. May Zeus never send storms to darken it! For
to bear disaster his soul seems never made.”
* * * * * * *
At the tent Manes, the athlete’s body-servant, came running to his master,
with a small box firmly bound.
“A strange dark man brought this only a moment since. It is for Master
Glaucon.”
On opening there was revealed a bracelet of Egyptian turquoise; the price
thereof Simonides wisely set at two minæ. Nothing betrayed the identity of
the giver save a slip of papyrus written in Greek, but in very uncertain
hand. “_To the Beautiful Champion of Athens: from one he has greatly
served._”
Cimon held the bracelet on high, admiring its perfect lustre.
“Themistocles was wrong,” he remarked; “the Oriental was not ungrateful.
But what ‘slave’ or ‘lad’ was this that Glaucon succoured?”
“Perhaps,” insinuated Simonides, “Themistocles was wrong yet again. Who
knows if a stranger giving such gifts be not sent forth by Xerxes?”
“Don’t chatter foolishness,” commanded Democrates, almost peevishly; but
Glaucon replaced the bracelet in the casket.
“Since the god sends this, I will rejoice in it,” he declared lightly. “A
fair omen for to-morrow, and it will shine rarely on Hermione’s arm.” The
mention of that lady called forth new protests from Cimon, but he in turn
was interrupted, for a half-grown boy had entered the tent and stood
beckoning to Democrates.
CHAPTER III
THE HAND OF PERSIA
The lad who sidled up to Democrates was all but a hunchback. His bare arms
were grotesquely tattooed, clear sign that he was a Thracian. His eyes
twinkled keenly, uneasily, as in token of an almost sinister intelligence.
What he whispered to Democrates escaped the rest, but the latter began
girding up his cloak.
“You leave us, _philotate_?” cried Glaucon. “Would I not have all my
friends with me to-night, to fill me with fair thoughts for the morrow?
Bid your ugly Bias keep away!”
“A greater friend than even Glaucon the Alcmæonid commands me hence,” said
the orator, smiling.
“Declare his name.”
“Declare _her_ name,” cried Simonides, viciously.
“Noble Cean, then I say I serve a most beautiful, high-born dame. Her name
is Athens.”
“Curses on your public business,” lamented Glaucon. “But off with you,
since your love is the love of us all.”
Democrates kissed the athlete on both cheeks. “I leave you to faithful
guardians. Last night I dreamed of a garland of lilies, sure presage of a
victory. So take courage.”
“_Chaire! chaire!_”(1) called the rest; and Democrates left the tent to
follow the slave-boy.
Evening was falling: the sea, rocks, fields, pine groves, were touched by
the red glow dying behind Acro-Corinthus. Torches gleamed amid the trees
where the multitudes were buying, selling, wagering, making merry. All
Greece seemed to have sent its wares to be disposed of at the Isthmia.
Democrates idled along, now glancing at the huckster who displayed his
painted clay dolls and urged the sightseers to remember the little ones at
home. A wine-seller thrust a sample cup of a choice vintage under the
Athenian’s nose, and vainly adjured him to buy. Thessalian easy-chairs,
pottery, slaves kidnapped from the Black Sea, occupied one booth after
another. On a pulpit before a bellowing crowd a pair of marionettes were
rolling their eyes and gesticulating, as a woman pulled the strings.
But there were more exalted entertainments. A rhapsodist stood on a pine
stump chanting in excellent voice Alcæus’s hymn to Apollo. And more
willingly the orator stopped on the edge of a throng of the better sort,
which listened to a man of noble aspect reading in clear voice from his
scroll.
“Æschylus of Athens,” whispered a bystander. “He reads choruses of certain
tragedies he says he will perfect and produce much later.”
Democrates knew the great dramatist well, but what he read was new—a “Song
of the Furies” calling a terrific curse upon the betrayer of friendship.
“Some of his happiest lines,” meditated Democrates, walking away, to be
held a moment by the crowd around Lamprus the master-harpist. But now,
feeling that he had dallied long enough, the orator turned his back on the
two female acrobats who were swinging on a trapeze and struck down a long,
straight road which led toward the distant cone of Acro-Corinthus. First,
however, he turned on Bias, who all the time had been accompanying,
dog-fashion.
“You say he is waiting at Hegias’s inn?”
“Yes, master. It’s by the temple of Bellerophon, just as you begin to
enter the city.”
“Good! I don’t want to ask the way. Now catch this obol and be off.”
The boy snatched the flying coin and glided into the crowd.
Democrates walked briskly out of the glare of the torches, then halted to
slip the hood of his cloak up about his face.
“The road is dark, but the wise man shuns accidents,” was his reflection,
as he strode in the direction pointed by Bias.
The way was dark. No moon; and even the brilliant starlight of summer in
Hellas is an uncertain guide. Democrates knew he was traversing a long
avenue lined by spreading cypresses, with a shimmer of white from some
tall, sepulchral monument. Then through the dimness loomed the high
columns of a temple, and close beside it pale light spread out upon the
road as from an inn.
“Hegias’s inn,” grumbled the Athenian. “Zeus grant it have no more fleas
than most inns of Corinth!”
At sound of his footsteps the door opened promptly, without knocking. A
squalid scene revealed itself,—a white-washed room, an earthen floor, two
clay lamps on a low table, a few stools,—but a tall, lean man in Oriental
dress greeted the Athenian with a salaam which showed his own gold
earrings, swarthy skin, and black mustache.
“Fair greetings, Hiram,” spoke the orator, no wise amazed, “and where is
your master?”
“At service,” came a deep voice from a corner, so dark that Democrates had
not seen the couch where lolled an ungainly figure that now rose clumsily.
“Hail, Democrates.”
“Hail, Lycon.”
Hand joined in hand; then Lycon ordered the Oriental to “fetch the noble
Athenian some good Thasian wine.”
“You will join me?” urged the orator.
“Alas! no. I am still in training. Nothing but cheese and porridge till
after the victory to-morrow; but then, by Castor, I’ll enjoy ‘the
gentleman’s disease’—a jolly drunkenness.”
“Then you are sure of victory to-morrow?”
“Good Democrates, what god has tricked you into believing your fine
Athenian has a chance?”
“I have seven minæ staked on Glaucon.”
“Seven staked in the presence of your friends; how many in their absence?”
Democrates reddened. He was glad the room was dark. “I am not here to
quarrel about the pentathlon,” he said emphatically.
“Oh, very well. Leave your dear sparrow to my gentle hands.” The Spartan’s
huge paws closed significantly: “Here’s the wine. Sit and drink. And you,
Hiram, get to your corner.”
The Oriental silently squatted in the gloom, the gleam of his beady eyes
just visible. Lycon sat on a stool beside his guest, his Cyclops-like
limbs sprawling down upon the floor. Scarred and brutish, indeed, was his
face, one ear missing, the other beaten flat by boxing gloves; but
Democrates had a distinct feeling that under his battered visage and wiry
black hair lurked greater penetration of human motive and more ability to
play therewith than the chance observer might allow. The Athenian
deliberately waited his host’s first move.
“The wine is good, Democrates?” began Lycon.
“Excellent.”
“I presume you have arranged your wagers to-morrow with your usual
prudence.”
“How do you know about them?”
“Oh, my invaluable Hiram, who arranged this interview for us through Bias,
has made himself a brother to all the betting masters. I understand you
have arranged it so that whether Glaucon wins or loses you will be none
the poorer.”
The Athenian set down his cup.
“Because I would not let my dear friend’s sanguine expectations blind all
my judgment is no reason why you should seek this interview, Lycon,” he
rejoined tartly. “If this is the object of your summons, I’m better back
in my own tent.”
Lycon tilted back against the table. His speech was nothing curt or
“Laconic”; it was even drawling. “On the contrary, dear Democrates, I was
only commending your excellent foresight, something that I see
characterizes all you do. You are the friend of Glaucon. Since Aristeides
has been banished, only Themistocles exceeds you in influence over the
Athenians. Therefore, as a loyal Athenian you must support your champion.
Likewise, as a man of judgment you must see that I—though this pentathlon
is only a by-play, not my business—will probably break your Glaucon’s back
to-morrow. It is precisely this good judgment on your part which makes me
sure I do well to ask an interview—for something else.”
“Then quickly to business.”
“A few questions. I presume Themistocles to-day conferred with Leonidas?”
“I wasn’t present with them.”
“But in due time Themistocles will tell you everything?”
Democrates chewed his beard, not answering.
“_Pheu!_ you don’t pretend Themistocles distrusts you?” cried the Spartan.
“I don’t like your questions, Lycon.”
“I am very sorry. I’ll cease them. I only wished to-night to call to your
mind the advantage of two such men as you and I becoming friends. I may be
king of Lacedæmon before long.”
“I knew that before, but where’s your chariot driving?”
“Dear Athenian, the Persian chariot is now driving toward Hellas. We
cannot halt it. Then let us be so wise that it does not pass over us.”
“Hush!” Democrates spilled the cup as he started. “No ‘Medizing’ talk
before me. Am I not Themistocles’s friend?”
“Themistocles and Leonidas will seem valiant fools after Xerxes comes. Men
of foresight—”
“Are never traitors.”
“Beloved Democrates,” sneered the Spartan, “in one year the most patriotic
Hellene will be he who has made the Persian yoke the most endurable. Don’t
blink at destiny.”
“Don’t be overcertain.”
“Don’t grow deaf and blind. Xerxes has been collecting troops these four
years. Every wind across the Ægean tells how the Great King assembles
millions of soldiers, thousands of ships: Median cavalry, Assyrian
archers, Egyptian battle-axemen—the best troops in the world. All the East
will be marching on our poor Hellas. And when has Persia failed to
conquer?”
“At Marathon.”
“A drop of rain before the tempest! If Datis, the Persian general, had
only been more prudent!”
“Clearly, noblest Lycon,” said Democrates, with a satirical smile, “for a
taciturn Laconian to become thus eloquent for tyranny must have taken a
bribe of ten thousand gold darics.”
“But answer my arguments.”
“Well—the old oracle is proved: ‘Base love of gain and naught else shall
bear sore destruction to Sparta.’ ”
“That doesn’t halt Xerxes’s advance.”
“An end to your croakings,”—Democrates was becoming angry,—“I know the
Persian’s power well enough. Now why have you summoned me?”
Lycon looked on his visitor long and hard. He reminded the Athenian
disagreeably of a huge cat just considering whether a mouse were near
enough to risk a spring.
“I sent for you because I wished you to give a pledge.”
“I’m in no mood to give it.”
“You need not refuse. Giving or withholding the fate of Hellas will not be
altered, save as you wish to make it so.”
“What must I promise?”
“That you will not reveal the presence in Greece of a man I intend to set
before you.” Another silence. Democrates knew even then, if vaguely, that
he was making a decision on which might hinge half his future. In the
after days he looked back on this instant with unspeakable regret. But the
Laconian sat before him, smiling, sneering, commanding by his more
dominant will. The Athenian answered, it seemed, despite himself:—
“If it is not to betray Hellas.”
“It is not.”
“Then I promise.”
“Swear it then by your native Athena.”
And Democrates—perhaps the wine was strong—lifted his right hand and swore
by Athena Polias of Athens he would betray no secret.
Lycon arose with what was part bellow, part laugh. Even then the orator
was moved to call back the pledge, but the Spartan acted too swiftly. The
short moments which followed stamped themselves on Democrates’s memory.
The flickering lamps, the squalid room, the long, dense shadows, the
ungainly movements of the Spartan, who was opening a door,—all this passed
after the manner of a vision. And as in a vision Democrates saw a stranger
stepping through the inner portal, as at Lycon’s summons—a man of no huge
stature, but masterful in eye and mien. Another Oriental, but not as the
obsequious Hiram. Here was a lord to command and be obeyed. Gems flashed
from the scarlet turban, the green jacket was embroidered with pearls—and
was not half the wealth of Corinth in the jewels studding the sword hilt?
Tight trousers and high shoes of tanned leather set off a form supple and
powerful as a panther’s. Unlike most Orientals the stranger was fair. A
blond beard swept his breast. His eyes were sharp, steel-blue. Never a
word spoke he; but Democrates looked on him with wide eyes, then turned
almost in awe to the Spartan.
“This is a prince—” he began.
“His Highness Prince Abairah of Cyprus,” completed Lycon, rapidly, “now
come to visit the Isthmian Games, and later your Athens. It is for this I
have brought you face to face—that he may be welcome in your city.”
The Athenian cast at the stranger a glance of keenest scrutiny. He knew by
every instinct in his being that Lycon was telling a barefaced lie. Why he
did not cry out as much that instant he hardly himself knew. But the gaze
of the “Cyprian” pierced through him, fascinating, magnetizing, and
Lycon’s great hand was on his victim’s shoulder. The “Cyprian’s” own hand
went out seeking Democrates’s.
“I shall be very glad to see the noble Athenian in his own city. His fame
for eloquence and prudence is already in Tyre and Babylon,” spoke the
stranger, never
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and corn. What numbers of
men and women have been at work to get each soldier ready for the field.
He has boots, clothes, and equipments. The tanner, currier, shoemaker,
the manufacturer, with his swift-flying shuttles, the operator tending
his looms and spinning-jennies, the tailor with his sewing-machines, the
gunsmith, the harness-maker, the blacksmith,--all trades and occupations
have been employed. There are saddles, bridles, knapsacks, canteens,
dippers, plates, knives, stoves, kettles, tents, blankets, medicines,
drums, swords, pistols, guns, cannon, powder, percussion-caps, bullets,
shot, shells, wagons,--everything.
Walk leisurely through the camps, and observe the little things and the
great things, see the men on the march. Then go into the Army and Navy
Departments in Washington, in those brick buildings west of the
President's house. In those rooms are surveys, maps, plans, papers,
charts of the ocean, of the sea-coast, currents, sand-bars, shoals, the
rising and falling of tides. In the Topographical Bureau you see maps of
all sections of the country. There is the Ordnance Bureau, with all
sorts of guns, rifles, muskets, carbines, pistols, swords, shells,
rifled shot, fuses which the inventors have brought in. There are a
great many bureaus, with immense piles of papers and volumes, containing
experiments upon the strength of iron, the trials of cannon, guns,
mortars, and powder. There have been experiments to determine how much
powder shall be used, whether it shall be as fine as mustard-seed or as
coarse as lumps of sugar, and the results are all noted here. All the
appliances of science, industry, and art are brought into use to make it
the best army the world ever saw.
It is the business of the government to bring the materials together,
and the business of the generals to organize it into brigades,
divisions, and corps,--to determine the number of cavalry and batteries
of artillery, to place weak materials in their proper places, and the
strongest where they will be most needed.
The general commanding must have a plan of operations. Napoleon said
that war is like a game of chess, and that a commander must make his
game. He must think it out beforehand, and in such a manner that the
enemy will be compelled to play it in his way and be defeated. The
general-in-chief must see the end from the beginning, just as Napoleon,
sticking his map of Europe full of pins, decided that he could defeat
the Austrians at Austerlitz, the Prussians at Jena. That is genius. The
general-in-chief makes his plan on the supposition that all his orders
will be obeyed promptly, that no one will shirk responsibility, that not
one of all the vast multitude will fail to do his duty.
The night before the battle of Waterloo, Napoleon sent an order to an
officer to take possession of a little hillock, on which stood a
farm-house overlooking the plain. The officer thought it would do just
as well if he let it go till morning, but in the morning the English had
possession of the spot, and in consequence of that officer's neglect
Napoleon probably lost the great battle, his army, and his empire. Great
events often hang on little things, and in military operations it is of
the utmost importance that they should be attended to.
From the beginning to the end, unless every man does his duty, from the
general in command to the private in the ranks, there is danger of
failure.
Thus the army is organized, and thus through organization it becomes a
disciplined body. Instead of being a confused mass of men, horses,
mules, cannon, caissons, wagons, and ambulances, it is a body which can
be divided, subdivided, separated by miles of country, hurried here and
there, hurled upon the enemy, and brought together again by the stroke
of a pen, by a word, or the click of the telegraph.
When a battle is to be fought, the general-in-chief must not only have
his plan how to get the great mass of men to the field, but he must have
a plan of movement on the field. Each corps must have its position
assigned. There must be a line of battle. It is not a continuous line of
men, but there are wide spaces, perhaps miles wide, between the corps,
divisions, and brigades. Hills, ravines, streams, swamps, houses,
villages, bushes, a fence, rocks, wheat-fields, sunlight and shade, all
must be taken into account. Batteries must be placed on hills, or in
commanding positions to sweep all the country round. Infantry must be
gathered in masses in the centre or on either wing, or deployed and
separated according to circumstances. They must be sheltered. They must
be thrown here or there, as they may be needed to hold or to crush the
enemy. They are to stand still and be ploughed through by shot and
shell, or rush into the thickest of the fight, just as they may be
ordered. They are not to question the order;--
"Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die."
There are sleepless nights in the tent of the general-in-chief. When all
others except the pickets are asleep, he is examining maps and plans,
calculating distances, estimating the strength of his army, and asking
himself whether it will do to attack the enemy, or whether he shall
stand on the defensive? can this brigade be relied upon for a desperate
charge? will that division hold the enemy in check? At such times, the
good name, the valor, the bravery of the troops and of the officers who
command them is reviewed. He weighs character. He knows who are reliable
and who inefficient. He studies, examines papers, consults reports,
makes calculations, sits abstractedly, walks nervously, and lies down to
dream it all over again and again.
The welfare of the country, thousands of lives, and perhaps the destiny
of the nation, is in his hands. How shall he arrange his corps? ought
the troops to be massed in the centre, or shall he concentrate them on
the wings? shall he feel of the enemy with a division or two, or rush
upon him like an avalanche? Can the enemy outflank him, or get upon his
rear? What if the Rebels should pounce upon his ammunition and
supply-trains? What is the position of the enemy? How large is his
force? How many batteries has he? How much cavalry? What do the scouts
report? Are the scouts to be believed? One says the enemy is retreating,
another that he is advancing. What are the probabilities? A thousand
questions arise which must be answered. The prospect of success must be
carefully calculated. Human life must be thrown remorselessly into the
scale. All the sorrows and the tears of wives, mothers, fathers,
brothers, and sisters far away, who will mourn for the dead, must be
forgotten. He must shut up all tender thoughts, and become an iron man.
Ah! it is not so fine a thing to be a general, perhaps, as you have
imagined!
It is an incomplete, imperfect, and unsatisfactory look which you have
taken of the machinery of a great army. But you can see that a very
small thing may upset the best-laid plan of any commander. The cowardice
of a regiment, the failure of an officer to do his duty, to be at a
place at an appointed moment, the miscarriage of orders, a hundred
things which you can think of, may turn a victory into a defeat. You can
see that a great battle must be a grand and terrible affair; but though
you may use all your powers of imagination in endeavoring to picture the
positions of the troops,--how they look, how they act, how they stand
amid the terrible storm, braying death, how they rush into the thickest
fire, how they fall like the sere leaves of autumn,--you will fail in
your conceptions of the conflict. You must see it, and be in it, to know
what it is.
CHAPTER III.
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
The first great battle of the war was fought near Bull Run, in Virginia.
There had been skirmishing along the Potomac, in Western Virginia, and
Missouri; but upon the banks of this winding stream was fought a battle
which will be forever memorable. The Rebels call it the battle of
Manassas. It has been called also the battle of Stone Bridge and the
battle of Warrenton Road.
Bull Run is a lazy, sluggish stream, a branch of the Occoquan River,
which empties into the Potomac. It rises among the Bull Run Mountains,
and flows southeast through Fairfax County. Just beyond the stream, as
you go west from Washington, are the plains of Manassas,--level lands,
which years ago waved with corn and tobacco, but the fields long since
were worn out by the thriftless farming of the slaveholders, and now
they are overgrown with thickets of pine and oak.
Two railroads meet upon the plains, one running northwest through the
mountain gaps into the valley of the Shenandoah, and the other running
from Alexandria to Richmond, Culpepper, and the Southwest. The junction,
therefore, became an important place for Rebel military operations.
There, in June, 1861, General Beauregard mustered his army, which was to
defeat the Union army and capture Washington. The Richmond newspapers
said that this army would not only capture Washington, but would also
dictate terms of peace on the banks of the Hudson. Hot-headed men, who
seemed to have lost their reason through the influence of slavery and
secession, thought that the Southern troops were invincible. They were
confident that one Southerner could whip five Yankees. Ladies cheered
them, called them chivalrous sons of the South, and urged them on to the
field.
But General Beauregard, instead of advancing upon Washington, awaited an
attack from the Union army, making Bull Run his line of defence,
throwing up breastworks, cutting down trees, and sheltering his men
beneath the thick growth of the evergreen pines.
The army of the Union, called the Army of the Potomac, assembled at
Arlington Heights and Alexandria. General McDowell was placed in
command. Half of his soldiers were men who had enlisted for three
months, who had suddenly left their homes at the call of the President.
Their term of service had nearly expired. The three years' men had been
but a few days in camp. Military duties were new. They knew nothing of
discipline, but they confidently expected to defeat the enemy and move
on to Richmond. Few people thought of the possibility of defeat.
Let us walk up the valley of Bull Run and notice its fords, its wooded
banks, the scattered farm-houses, and fields of waving grain. Ten miles
from the Occoquan we come to the railroad bridge. A mile farther up is
McLean's Ford; another mile carries us to Blackburn's, and another mile
brings us to Mitchell's. Above these are Island Ford, Lewis Ford, and
Ball's Ford. Three miles above Mitchell's there is a stone bridge, where
the turnpike leading from Centreville to Warrenton crosses the stream.
Two miles farther up is a place called Sudley Springs,--a cluster of
houses, a little stone church, a blacksmith's shop. The stream there has
dwindled to a brook, and gurgles over a rocky bed.
Going back to the stone bridge, and standing upon its parapet, you may
look east to Centreville, about four miles distant, beautifully situated
on a high ridge of land, but a very old, dilapidated place when you get
to it. Going west from the bridge, you see upon your right hand a swell
of land, and another at your left hand, south of the turnpike. A brook
trickles by the roadside. Leaving the turnpike, and ascending the ridge
on the north side, you see that towards Sudley Springs there are other
swells of land, with wheat-fields, fences, scattered trees, and groves
of pines and oaks. Looking across to the hill south of the turnpike, a
half-mile distant, you see the house of Mr. Lewis, and west of it Mrs.
Henry's, on the highest knoll. Mrs. Henry is an old lady, so far
advanced in life that she is helpless. Going up the turnpike a mile from
the bridge, you come to the toll-gate, kept by Mr. Mathey. A cross-road
comes down from Sudley Springs, and leads south towards Manassas
Junction, six miles distant. Leave the turnpike once more, and go
northwest a half-mile, and you come to the farm of Mr. Dogan. There are
farm-sheds and haystacks near his house.
This ground, from Dogan's to the ridge east of the toll-gate, across the
turnpike and the trickling brook to Mr. Lewis's and Mrs. Henry's, is the
battle-field. You see it,--the ridges of land, the houses, haystacks,
fences, knolls, ravines, wheat-fields, turnpike, and groves of oak and
pine,--a territory about two miles square.
On Saturday, June 20th, General Johnston, with nearly all the Rebel army
of the Shenandoah, arrived at Manassas. Being General Beauregard's
superior officer, he took command of all the troops. He had about thirty
thousand men.
On Thursday, General Richardson's brigade of General McDowell's army had
a skirmish with General Longstreet's brigade at Blackburn's Ford, which
the Rebels call the battle of Bull Run, while that which was fought on
the 21st they call the battle of Manassas. General Beauregard expected
that the attack would be renewed along the fords, and posted his men
accordingly.
Going down to the railroad bridge, we see General Ewell's brigade of the
Rebel army on the western bank guarding the crossing. General Jones's
brigade is at McLean's Ford. At Blackburn's Ford is General
Longstreet's, and at Mitchell's Ford is General Bonham's. Near by
Bonham's is General Earley's, General Bartow's, and General Holmes's.
General Jackson's is in rear of General Bonham's. At Island Ford is
General Bee and Colonel Hampton's legion, also Stuart's cavalry. At
Ball's Ford is General Cocke's brigade. Above, at the Stone Bridge, is
the extreme left of the Rebel army, General Evans's brigade. General
Elzey's brigade of the Shenandoah army is on its way in the cars, and is
expected to reach the battle-field before the contest closes. General
Johnston has between fifty and sixty pieces of artillery and about one
thousand cavalry.
General McDowell had also about thirty thousand men and forty-nine
pieces of artillery. His army was in four divisions,--General Tyler's,
General Hunter's, General Heintzelman's, and General Miles's. One
brigade of General Tyler's and General Miles's division was left at
Centreville to make a feint of attacking the enemy at Blackburn's and
Mitchell's Fords, and to protect the rear of the army from an attack by
Generals Ewell and Jones. The other divisions of the army--five
brigades, numbering eighteen thousand men, with thirty-six
cannon--marched soon after midnight, to be ready to make the attack by
sunrise on Sunday morning.
General Tyler, with General Keyes's brigade, General Sherman's, and
General Schenck's, marched down the turnpike towards the Stone Bridge,
where General Evans was on the watch. General Tyler had twelve pieces of
artillery,--two batteries, commanded by Ayer and Carlisle.
It is sunrise as they approach the bridge,--a calm, peaceful Sabbath
morning. The troops leave the turnpike, march into a cornfield, and
ascend a hill overlooking the bridge. As you stand there amid the
tasselled stalks, you see the stream rippling beneath the stone arches,
and upon the other bank breastworks of earth and fallen trees. Half hid
beneath the oaks and pines are the Rebel regiments, their gun-barrels
and bayonets flashing in the morning light. Beyond the breastworks upon
the knolls are the farm-houses of Mr. Lewis and Mrs. Henry.
Captain Ayer, who has seen fighting in Mexico, brings his guns upon the
hill, wheels them into position, and sights them towards the
breastworks. There is a flash, a puff of smoke, a screaming in the air,
and then across the stream a handful of cloud bursts into view above the
Rebel lines. The shell has exploded. There is a sudden movement of the
Rebel troops. It is the first gun of the morning. And now, two miles
down the Run, by Mitchell's Ford, rolling, echoing, and reverberating
through the forests, are other thunderings. General Richardson has been
waiting impatiently to hear the signal gun. He is to make a feint of
attacking. His cannonade is to begin furiously. He has six guns, and all
of them are in position, throwing solid shot and shells into the wood
where Longstreet's men are lying.
All of Ayer's guns are in play, hurling rifled shot and shells, which
scream like an unseen demon as they fly over the cornfield, over the
meadow lands, to the woods and fields beyond the stream.
General Hunter and General Heintzelman, with their divisions, have left
the turnpike two miles from Centreville, at Cub Run bridge, a rickety,
wooden structure, which creaks and trembles as the heavy cannon rumble
over. They march into the northwest, along a narrow road,--a round-about
way to Sudley Springs. It is a long march. They started at two o'clock,
and have had no breakfast. They waited three hours at Cub Run, while
General Tyler's division was crossing, and they are therefore three
hours behind the appointed time. General McDowell calculated and
intended to have them at Sudley Springs by six o'clock, but now it is
nine. They stop a half-hour at the river-crossing to fill their canteens
from the gurgling stream.
Looking south from the little stone church, you see clouds of dust
floating over the forest-trees. The Rebels have discovered the movement,
and are marching in hot haste to resist the impending attack. General
Evans has left a portion of his command at Stone Bridge, and is
hastening with the remainder to the second ridge of land north of the
turnpike. He plants his artillery on the hill, and secretes his infantry
in a thicket of pines. General Bee is on the march, so is General Bartow
and General Jackson, all upon the double-quick. Rebel officers ride
furiously, and shout their orders. The artillerymen lash their horses to
a run. The infantry are also upon the run, sweating and panting in the
hot sunshine. The noise and confusion increase. The booming deepens
along the valley, for still farther down, by Blackburn's Ford, Hunt's
battery is pouring its fire upon Longstreet's, Jones's, and Ewell's men.
The Union troops at Sudley Springs move across the stream. General
Burnside's brigade is in advance. The Second Rhode Island infantry is
thrown out, deployed as skirmishers. The men are five paces apart. They
move slowly, cautiously, and nervously through the fields and thickets.
Suddenly, from bushes, trees, and fences there is a rattle of musketry.
General Evans's skirmishers are firing. There are jets of flame and
smoke, and a strange humming in the air. There is another rattle, a
roll, a volley. The cannon join. The first great battle has begun.
General Hunter hastens to the spot, and is wounded almost at the first
volley, and compelled to leave the field. The contest suddenly grows
fierce. The Rhode Island boys push on to closer quarters, and the Rebels
under General Evans give way from a thicket to a fence, from a fence to
a knoll.
General Bee arrives with his brigade to help General Evans. You see him
swing up into line west of Evans, towards the haystacks by Dogan's
house. He is in such a position that he can pour a fire upon the flank
of the Rhode Island boys, who are pushing Evans. It is a galling fire,
and the brave fellows are cut down by the raking shots from the
haystacks. They are almost overwhelmed. But help is at hand. The
Seventy-first New York, the Second New Hampshire, and the First Rhode
Island, all belonging to Burnside's brigade, move toward the haystacks.
They bring their guns to a level, and the rattle and roll begin. There
are jets of flame, long lines of light, white clouds, unfolding and
expanding, rolling over and over, and rising above the tree-tops. Wilder
the uproar. Men fall, tossing their arms; some leap into the air, some
plunge headlong, falling like logs of wood or lumps of lead. Some reel,
stagger, and tumble; others lie down gently as to a night's repose,
unheeding the din, commotion, and uproar. They are bleeding, torn, and
mangled. Legs, arms, bodies, are crushed. They see nothing. They cannot
tell what has happened. The air is full of fearful noises. An unseen
storm sweeps by. The trees are splintered, crushed, and broken as if
smitten by thunderbolts. Twigs and leaves fall to the ground. There is
smoke, dust, wild talking, shouting, hissings, howlings, explosions. It
is a new, strange, unanticipated experience to the soldiers of both
armies, far different from what they thought it would be.
Far away, church-bells are tolling the hour of Sabbath worship, and
children are singing sweet songs in many a Sunday school. Strange and
terrible the contrast! You cannot bear to look upon the dreadful scene.
How horrible those wounds! The ground is crimson with blood. You are
ready to turn away, and shut the scene forever from your sight. But the
battle must go on, and the war must go on till the wicked men who began
it are crushed, till the honor of the dear old flag is vindicated, till
the Union is restored, till the country is saved, till the slaveholder
is deprived of his power, and till freedom comes to the slave. It is
terrible to see, but you remember that the greatest blessing the world
ever received was purchased by blood,--the blood of the Son of God. It
is terrible to see, but there are worse things than war. It is worse to
have the rights of men trampled in the dust; worse to have your country
destroyed, to have justice, truth, and honor violated. You had better be
killed, torn to pieces by cannon-shot, than lose your manhood, or yield
that which makes you a man. It is better to die than give up that rich
inheritance bequeathed us by our fathers, and purchased by their blood.
The battle goes on. General Porter's brigade comes to the aid of
Burnside, moving towards Dogan's house. Jackson's Rebel brigade is there
to meet him. Arnold's battery is in play,--guns pouring a constant
stream of shot and shells upon the Rebel line. The Washington Artillery,
from New Orleans, is replying from the hill south of Dogan's. Other
Rebel batteries are cutting Burnside's brigade to pieces. The men are
all but ready to fall back before the terrible storm. Burnside sends to
Porter for help,--he asks for the brave old soldiers, the regulars, who
have been true to the flag of their country, while many of their former
officers have been false. They have been long in the service, and have
had many fierce contests with the Indians on the Western plains. They
are as true as steel. Captain Sykes commands them. He leads the way. You
see them, with steady ranks, in the edge of the woods east of Dogan's
house. They have been facing southwest, and now they turn to the
southeast. They pass through the grove of pines, and enter the open
field. They are cut through and through with solid shot, shells burst
around them, men drop from the ranks, but the battalion does not falter.
It sweeps on close up to the cloud of flame and smoke rolling from the
hill north of the turnpike. Their muskets come to a level. There is a
click, click, click, along the line. A broad sheet of flame, a white,
sulphurous cloud, a deep roll like the angry growl of thunder. There is
sudden staggering in the Rebel ranks. Men whirl round, and drop upon the
ground. The line wavers, and breaks. They run down the hill, across the
hollows, to another knoll. There they rally, and hold their ground a
while. Hampton's legion and Cocke's brigade come to their support.
Fugitives are brought back by the officers, who ride furiously over the
field. There is a lull, and then the strife goes on, a rattling fire of
musketry, and a continual booming of the cannonade.
General Heintzelman's division was in rear of General Hunter's on the
march. When the battle begun the troops were several miles from Sudley
Church. They were parched with thirst, and when they reached the stream
they, too, stopped and filled their canteens. Burnside's and Porter's
brigades were engaged two hours before Heintzelman's division reached
the field. Eight regiments had driven the Rebels from their first
position.
General Heintzelman marched upon the Rebels west of Dogan's house. The
Rebel batteries were on a knoll, a short distance from the toll-gate.
Griffin and Ricketts opened upon them with their rifled guns. Then came
a great puff of smoke. It was a Rebel caisson blown up by one of
Griffin's shells. It was a continuous, steady artillery fire. The
gunners of the Rebel batteries were swept away by the unerring aim of
Griffin's gunners. They changed position again and again, to avoid the
shot. Mingled with the constant crashing of the cannonade was an
irregular firing of muskets, like the pattering of rain-drops upon a
roof. At times there was a quicker rattle, and heavy rolls, like the
fall of a great building.
General Wilcox swung his brigade round upon Jackson's flank. The Rebel
general must retreat or be cut off, and he fell back to the toll-gate,
to the turnpike, across it, in confusion, to the ridge by Mrs. Henry's.
Evans's, Bee's, Bartow's, and Cocke's brigades, which have been trying
to hold their ground against Burnside and Porter's brigades, by this
movement are also forced back to Mr. Lewis's house. The Rebels do not
all go back. There are hundreds who rushed up in hot haste in the
morning lying bleeding, torn, mangled, upon the wooded slopes. Some are
prisoners.
I talked with a soldier of one of the Virginia regiments. We were near
the Stone Bridge. He was a tall, athletic young man, dressed in a gray
uniform trimmed with yellow braid.
"How many soldiers have you on the field?" I asked.
"Ninety thousand."
"Hardly that number, I guess."
"Yes, sir. We have got Beauregard's and Johnston's armies. Johnston came
yesterday and a whole lot more from Richmond. If you whip us to-day, you
will whip nigh to a hundred thousand."
"Who is in command?"
"Jeff Davis."
"I thought Beauregard was in command."
"Well, he was; but Jeff Davis is on the field now. I know it; for I saw
him just before I was captured. He was on a white horse."
While talking, a shell screamed over our heads and fell in the woods.
The Rebel batteries had opened again upon our position. Another came,
and we were compelled to leave the spot.
The prisoner may have been honest in his statements. It requires much
judgment to correctly estimate large armies. He was correct in saying
that Jeff Davis was there. He was on the ground, watching the progress
of the battle, but taking no part. He arrived in season to see the close
of the contest.
After Burnside and Porter had driven Evans, Bee, and Bartow across the
turnpike, General Sherman and General Keyes crossed Bull Run above the
Stone Bridge and moved straight down the stream. Schenck's brigade and
Ayer's and Carlisle's batteries were left to guard the rear.
Perhaps you had a brother or a father in the Second New Hampshire, or in
the Seventy-first New York, or in some other regiment; or perhaps when
the war is over you may wish to visit the spot and behold the ground
where the first great battle was fought. You will wish to see just where
they stood. Looking, then, along the line at one o'clock, you see
nearest the stream General Keyes's brigade, composed of the First,
Second, and Third Connecticut regiments and the Fourth Maine. Next is
Sherman's brigade, composed of the Sixty-ninth and Seventy-ninth New
York Militia, the Thirteenth New York Volunteers, and the Second
Wisconsin. Between these and the toll-gate you see first, as you go
west, Burnside's brigade, composed of the First and Second Rhode Island,
the Seventy-first New York Militia, and the Second New Hampshire, and
the Second Rhode Island battery; extending to the toll-house is Porter's
brigade. He has Sykes's battalion of regulars, and the Eighth and
Fourteenth regiments of New York Militia and Arnold's battery. Crossing
the road which comes down from Sudley Springs, you see General
Franklin's brigade, containing the Fifth Massachusetts Militia, the
First Minnesota Volunteers, and the Fourth Pennsylvania Militia. Next
you come to the men from Maine and Vermont, the Second, Fourth, and
Fifth Maine, and the Second Vermont, General Howard's brigade. Beyond,
upon the extreme right, is General Wilcox with the First Michigan and
the Eleventh New York. Griffin's and Rickett's batteries are near at
hand. There are twenty-four regiments and twenty-four pieces of
artillery. There are two companies of cavalry. If we step over to the
house of Mr. Lewis, we shall find General Johnston and General
Beauregard in anxious consultation. General Johnston has sent officers
in hot haste for reinforcements. Brigades are arriving out of
breath,--General Cocke's, Holmes's, Longstreet's, Earley's. Broken
regiments, fragments of companies, and stragglers are collected and
brought into line. General Bonham's brigade is sent for. All but General
Ewell's and General Jones's; they are left to prevent General Miles from
crossing at Blackburn's Ford and attacking the Rebel army in the rear.
General Johnston feels that it is a critical moment. He has been driven
nearly two miles. His flank has been turned. His loss has been very
great, and his troops are beginning to be disheartened. They have
changed their opinions of the Yankees.
General Johnston has Barley's brigade, composed of the Seventh and
Twenty-fourth Virginia, and the Seventh Louisiana; Jackson's brigade,
composed of the Second, Fourth, Fifth, Twenty-seventh, and Thirty-third
Virginia, and the Thirteenth Mississippi; Bee's and Bartow's brigades
united, composed of two companies of the Eleventh Mississippi, Second
Mississippi, First Alabama, Seventh and Eighth Georgia; Cocke's brigade,
the Eighteenth, Nineteenth, and Twenty-eighth Virginia, seven companies
of the Eighth, and three of the Forty-ninth Virginia; Evans's brigade,
composed of Hampton's legion, Fourth South Carolina, and Wheat's
Louisiana battalion; Holmes's brigade, composed of two regiments of
Virginia infantry, the First Arkansas, and the Second Tennessee. Two
regiments of Bonham's brigade, and Elzey's brigade were brought in
before the conflict was over. Putting the detached companies into
regiments, Johnston's whole force engaged in this last struggle is
thirty-five regiments of infantry, and about forty pieces of artillery,
all gathered upon the ridge by Mr. Lewis's and Mrs. Henry's.
There is marching to and fro of regiments. There is not much order.
Regiments are scattered. The lines are not even. This is the first
battle, and officers and men are inexperienced. There are a great many
stragglers on both sides; more, probably, from the Rebel ranks than from
McDowell's army, for thus far the battle has gone against them. You can
see them scattered over the fields, beyond Mr. Lewis's.
The fight goes on. The artillery crashes louder than before. There is a
continuous rattle of musketry. It is like the roaring of a hail-storm.
Sherman and Keyes move down to the foot of the hill, near Mr. Lewis's.
Burnside and Porter march across the turnpike. Franklin and Howard and
Wilcox, who have been pushing south, turn towards the southeast. There
are desperate hand-to-hand encounters. Cannon are taken and retaken.
Gunners on both sides are shot while loading their pieces. Hundreds
fall, and other hundreds leave the ranks. The woods toward Sudley
Springs are filled with wounded men and fugitives, weak, thirsty,
hungry, exhausted, worn down by the long morning march, want of sleep,
lack of food, and the excitement of the hour.
Across the plains, towards Manassas, are other crowds,--disappointed,
faint-hearted, defeated soldiers, fleeing for safety.
"We are defeated!"
"Our regiments are cut to pieces!"
"General Bartow is wounded and General Bee is killed!"
Thus they cry, as they hasten towards Manassas.[3] Officers and men in
the Rebel ranks feel that the battle is all but lost. Union officers and
men feel that it is almost won.
[Footnote 3: Rebel reports in Rebellion Record.]
The Rebel right wing, far out upon the turnpike, has been folded back
upon the centre; the centre has been driven in upon the left wing, and
the left wing has been pushed back beyond Mr. Lewis's house. Griffin's
and Rickett's batteries, which had been firing from the ridge west of
the toll-gate, were ordered forward to the knoll from which the Rebel
batteries had been driven.
"It is too far in advance," said General Griffin.
"The Fire Zouaves will support you," said General Barry.
"It is better to have them go in advance till we come into position;
then they can fall back," Griffin replied.
"No; you are to move first, those are the orders. The Zouaves are
already to follow on the double-quick."
"I will go; but, mark my words, they will not support me."
The battery galloped over the fields, descended the hill, crossed the
ravine, advancing to the brow of the hill near Mrs. Henry's, followed by
Rickett's battery, the Fire Zouaves, and the Fourteenth New York. In
front of them, about forty or fifty rods distant, were the Rebel
batteries, supported by infantry. Griffin and Ricketts came into
position, and opened a fire so terrible and destructive that the Rebel
batteries and infantry were driven beyond the crest of the hill.
The field was almost won. Read what General Johnston says: "The long
contest against fivefold odds, and heavy losses, especially of field
officers, had greatly discouraged the troops of General Bee and Colonel
Evans. The aspect of affairs was critical."
The correspondent of the Charleston Mercury writes: "When I entered on
the field at two o'clock, the fortunes of the day were dark. The
remnants of the regiments, so badly injured or wounded and worn, as they
staggered out gave gloomy pictures of the scene. We could not be routed,
perhaps, but it is doubtful whether we were destined to a victory."
The correspondent of the Richmond Despatch writes: "Fighting for hours
under a hot sun, without a drop of water near, the conduct of our men
could not be excelled; but human endurance has its bounds, _and all
seemed about to be lost_."
The battle surges around the house of Mrs. Henry. She is lying there
amidst its thunders. Rebel sharpshooters take possession of it, and pick
off Rickett's gunners. He turns his guns upon the house. Crash! crash!
crash! It is riddled with grape and canister. Sides, roof, doors, and
windows are pierced,
|
in popular
parlance, the "Morgan Steamship Merger," a "combine" of a large
proportion of the transatlantic steam lines.[AW] Upon this, in response
to a popular clamor, subsidy, and in a large dose, was openly granted to
sustain British supremacy in overseas steam-shipping. To keep the Cunard
Line out of the American merger, and hold it absolutely under British
control and British capitalization, and, furthermore, to aid the company
immediately to build ships capable of equalling if not surpassing the
highest type of ocean liners that had to that time been produced (the
highest type then being German-built steamers operating under the German
flag), the Cunard Company were resubsidized with a special fixed subsidy
of three-quarters of a million dollars a year, instead of the Admiralty
subvention of about seventy-five thousand dollars, and in addition to
their regular mail pay, the subsidy to run for a period of twenty years
after the completion of the second of two high-grade, high-speed ocean
"greyhounds" called for for the Atlantic trade. The Government were to
lend the money for the construction of the two new ships at the rate of
2-3/4 per cent per annum, the company to repay the loan by annual
payments extending over twenty years. The company on their part pledged
themselves, until the expiry of the agreement, to remain a purely
British undertaking, the management, the stock of the corporation, and
their ships, to be in the hands of or held by British subjects only.
They were to hold the whole of their fleet, including the two new
vessels, and all others to be built, at the disposal of the Government,
the latter being at liberty to charter or purchase any or all at agreed
rates. They were not to raise freights unduly nor to give any
preferential rates to foreigners.[AX] The subsidy is equivalent to about
twenty thousand dollars for an outward voyage of three thousand miles.
* * * * *
Of the British colonies, Canada grants mail and steamship subsidies, and
fisheries bounties. In 1909-10 the Dominion's expenditures in mail and
steamship subsidies amounted to a total equivalent to $1,736,372. The
amount appropriated for 1910-11 increased to $2,054,200; while the
estimates for 1911-12 reached a total of $2,006,206. In these estimates
the larger items were: for service between Canada and Great Britain;
Australia by the Pacific; Canadian Atlantic ports and Australia and New
Zealand; South Africa; Mexico by the Atlantic, and by the Pacific; West
Indies and South America; China and Japan; Canada and France.[AY] The
home Government pays the same amount as Canada toward maintaining the
China and Japan, and British West Indies services.[AZ] The fisheries
bounties amounted to one hundred and sixty thousand dollars in 1909.[BA]
* * * * *
The grand total of subsidies and subventions paid by Great Britain and
all her colonies in 1911 approximate ten million dollars annually. The
subsidies and mail pay of the Imperial Government amounted, in round
numbers, to four million dollars, of which, in 1910, the Cunard Company
received seven hundred and twenty-nine thousand dollars.[BB] Besides the
Admiralty subventions, retainer bounties are paid to merchant seamen and
fishermen of the Royal Naval Reserve.
Since the establishment of steam in regular ocean navigation, and the
substitution of iron for wooden ships, England has maintained her
leadership among the maritime nations. The total tonnage of the United
Kingdom and her colonies, steam and sailing ships, in 1910-11, stood at
19,012,294 tons.[BC] nearly four fold that of any other nation.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Royal Meeker, "History of Ship Subsidies."]
[Footnote B: John E. Green, "Short History of the English People."]
[Footnote C: W.H. Lindsay, "History of Merchant Shipping."]
[Footnote D: Lindsay.]
[Footnote E: David A. Wells, "Our Merchant Marine," p. 96.]
[Footnote F: John Lewis Ricardo, "The Anatomy of the Navigation Laws,"
p. 111.]
[Footnote G: Lindsay, vol. III.]
[Footnote H: Lindsay, "Our Navigation Laws"; also his History.]
[Footnote I: Ricardo; also Lindsay in other words.]
[Footnote J: Meaning the waters between Great Britain and the
continent.]
[Footnote K: Green, p. 593.]
[Footnote L: Ricardo, p. 26.]
[Footnote M: Meeker.]
[Footnote N: W.W. Bates, "American Marine," pp. 57-59.]
[Footnote O: John Macgregor, "Commercial Tariffs."]
[Footnote P: Lindsay, vol. III, p. 65.]
[Footnote Q: Macgregor.]
[Footnote R: Lindsay, vol. III, p. 69; also pp. 53-54 and 107.]
[Footnote S: Rear-Admiral George H. Preble, "Chronological History of
Steam Navigation."]
[Footnote T: Preble. Lindsay says thirty-seven.]
[Footnote U: Preble, p. 137; also Bates, p. 185.]
[Footnote V: Meeker.]
[Footnote W: Parliamentary papers 1839, vol. XLVI, no. 566, as to the
private contract.]
[Footnote X: Lindsay, vol. IV.]
[Footnote Y: Meeker; also Parl. papers 1849, vol. XII, no. 571.]
[Footnote Z: Lindsay, vol. X; also Parl. papers, report H. of C., Aug.,
1840.]
[Footnote AA: Report of Select Com. (1846) Parl. papers, vol. XV, no.
565, p. 3.]
[Footnote AB: Lindsay, vol. IV.]
[Footnote AC: The _Princeton_, sloop-of-war fitted with the Ericsson
screw, launched the same year.]
[Footnote AD: Lindsay, vol. IV, p. 198, _note_.]
[Footnote AE: John R. Spears, "The Story of the American Merchant
Marine," pp. 254-255.]
[Footnote AF: William Wheelwright, of Newburyport, Massachusetts,
sometime American consul at Guayaquil.]
[Footnote AG: Winthrop L. Marvin, "The American Merchant Marine," p.
231; also Preble; and Lindsay, vol. IV, pp. 316-330.]
[Footnote AH: Marvin, p. 231.]
[Footnote AI: See p. 76, _post_.]
[Footnote AJ: Meeker.]
[Footnote AK: Lindsay, vol. IV, p. 198, _note_.]
[Footnote AL: Wells, p. 148.]
[Footnote AM: Bates, p. 87; also p. 130.]
[Footnote AN: Meeker.]
[Footnote AO: Meeker.]
[Footnote AP: See p. 77, _post_.]
[Footnote AQ: Meeker.]
[Footnote AR: Meeker.]
[Footnote AS: Parl. papers, 1867-68, 1868-69.]
[Footnote AT: See p. 20, _ante_.]
[Footnote AU: The American Steamship Co. of Phila., with 4 iron steamers
built on the Delaware--the _Pennsylvania_, _Ohio_, _Indiana_, and
_Illinois_.]
[Footnote AV: Meeker.]
[Footnote AW: Ultimately embracing the American, Red Star, White Star,
Atlantic Transport, and Dominion Lines.]
[Footnote AX: For details of this contract see report of (U.S.)
commissioner of navigation for 1903, pp. 48-52, and 224-268. The two
steamships called for were the _Lusitania_, 31,550 gross tons, launched
June 7, 1906; and the _Mauretania_, 31,937 gross tons, launched Sept.
19, 1906, both quadruple screw turbines, about 70,000 horsepower; the
largest, fastest, and completest steamers afloat till the production in
1911 of the _Olympic_, 45,324 gross tons, of the International
Mercantile Marine Co.'s White Star Line.]
[Footnote AY: U.S. consul, Charlottetown, P.E.I. in daily Con. Repts.
(Jan. 20) 1911, no. 16.]
[Footnote AZ: Consul General Small, Halifax, in Con. Repts. (Dec.) 1905,
no. 303.]
[Footnote BA: The American Year Book, 1911.]
[Footnote BB: American Year Book, 1911.]
[Footnote BC: Lloyd's Register, 1910-11.]
CHAPTER III
FRANCE
France has been rightly termed the bounty-giving nation _par
excellence_.[BD] She first adopted a policy of State protection of
native shipping in the middle of the sixteenth century with the
enactment (1560) of an exclusive Navigation Act, forbidding her subjects
to freight foreign vessels in any port of the realm, and prohibiting
foreign ships from carrying any kind of merchandise from French
ports.[BE] This was followed up in the next century with the institution
of the direct bounty system to foster French-built ships.[BD]
In the reign of Louis XIV, Colbert, Louis's celebrated finance minister,
perfected (about 1661) an elaborate system of navigation laws, evidently
copied from the rigorous English code. This was directed primarily
against the commerce of Holland and England, with the ultimate object of
upbuilding the home merchant marine and the laying of a broad basis for
a national navy.[BF] These acts included decrees giving French ships the
monopoly of trade to and from the colonies of France; imposing tonnage
duties on foreign shipping; awarding direct premiums on French-built
ships. England retaliated immediately. Holland remonstrated first, then
made reprisals. For a time under Colbert's energetic administration of
the finances and the marine, "prosperity grew apace. At the end of
twelve years everything was flourishing."[BG] Then came the six years'
war (1672-1678) with France and England combined against Holland, and at
its end the French merchant marine lay sorely crippled.[BG]
Still the fundamental principles of the stringent navigation laws long
remained. A decree in 1681, and subsequent ordinances, defined what
should constitute a French vessel; and corporal punishment was ordained
against a captain for a second offence in navigating a vessel of alien
ownership under the French flag.[BH] By later decrees, no alien was
permitted to command a French vessel. An ordinance of 1727 further
restricted alien command by shutting out even French subjects who had
married aliens.[BH] It was required that every French vessel should be
manned by a crew two-thirds of whom were French subjects.[BH] The system
of regulations restricting the trade of the French colonies to French
ships, and to the home market held till well into the nineteenth
century.
During the Revolution a decree (May, 1791) prohibited acquisition of all
vessels of foreign build. In 1793 (Sept.) it was ordained that no
foreign commodities, productions, or merchandise should be imported into
France, or into any of her colonies or possessions, except directly in
French ships, or in ships belonging to the inhabitants of the countries
in which the articles imported were produced, or from the ordinary ports
of sale or exportation. All officers and three-fourths of the crew were
required to be natives of the country of which the foreign vessel bore
the flag, under penalty of confiscation of vessel and cargo, and a fine
enforcible under pain of imprisonment. A tonnage tax was levied on
foreign ships alone.
Despite this elaborate code designed for its benefit the domestic
mercantile marine almost entirely disappeared during the wars of the
Republic and the Empire; and after the Restoration its revival was so
slow that for some time foreign ships were absolutely necessary for the
supply of the French market.[BH] Still the underlying principles of the
code were retained by the Restoration Government, modified in a few
particulars. The modifications included the removal of the prohibition
on indirect commerce--- the carrying trade between France and other
countries:--yet advantage even in this commerce was held for the French
flag through "flag surtaxes," added to the ordinary customs duties
levied upon the merchandise imported into France in foreign bottoms,
and by the tonnage charges.[BI] A law of March, 1822, renewed the
prohibition against the importation of foreign-built ships.[BI]
Early under Napoleon III movements toward the adoption of an economic
policy similar to that then established in England were begun, and
shortly a succession of radical changes in the maritime code were
instituted.[BJ] In 1860 a commercial treaty with England was entered
into. In 1861 freedom of access of foreign shipping to the French West
Indies was permitted, subject to the payment of special duties varying
according to the ports whence the goods were brought, or to which they
were imported. Then at length, in 1866, numerous restrictions of the old
code were swept away.[BJ] This law of 1866 (May) admitted duty-free all
materials, raw or manufactured, including boilers and parts of engines
necessary for the construction, rigging, and outfitting of iron or
wooden ships; abolished a premium, or bounty, granted by a law of 1841
(May) on all steam engines manufactured in France intended for
international navigation; admitted to registration foreign-built and
fully equipped ships upon the payment of two francs a ton; abolished all
tonnage duties on foreign ships, except such as had been or might be
levied for the improvement of certain commercial harbors; abolished the
flag surtaxes; opened colonial navigation to foreign ships. The monopoly
of the coasting trade alone was retained for French ships.[BK]
Complaints against these new regulations were promptly raised by
shipbuilders and ship-outfitters,[BK] and in 1870 a Parliamentary
inquiry into their grievances was made. It appeared that shipbuilders,
though enabled to import free such materials as they needed, were
handicapped by numerous and extensive formalities; while the outfitters
were embarrassed by special burdens which the law laid upon them, and
which their British competitors did not have to bear.[BL] In 1872 laws
were passed which reversed much of the act of 1866. A tax of from
thirty to fifty francs a ton measurement was re-imposed on all foreign
ships purchased for registration in France, together with a duty on
marine engines; again a tonnage duty, of from fifty centimes to one
franc, was imposed on ships of any flag coming from a foreign country or
from the French colonies; and the provisions freeing materials for ship
construction, and admitting foreign-built ships to French registration
upon payment of the two-franc tax per ton, were repealed.[BM] In 1873 an
extra-parliamentary commission took up the general question of the state
of the commercial marine,[BN] and the outcome of this inquiry was the
establishment of the system of direct bounties. This system was applied
for the first time in the Merchant Marine Act passed in January, 1881.
The act of 1881 granted both construction and navigation premiums, and
was limited to ten years. The construction bounties, as was declared,
were given "as compensation for the increased cost which the customs
tariff imposed on shipbuilders" in consequence of the repeal of the law
granting free import of materials by construction; the navigation
bounties, "for the purpose of compensating the mercantile navy for the
service it renders the country in the recruitment of the military navy."
The construction bounties, on gross tonnage, were as follows: for wooden
ships of less than 200 tons, ten francs a ton; of more than 200 tons,
twenty francs; for composite ships, that is, ships with iron or steel
beams and wooden sides, forty francs a ton; for iron or steel ships,
sixty francs; for engines placed on steamers, and for boilers and other
auxiliary apparatus, twelve francs per 100 kilograms; for renewing
boilers, eight francs per 100 kilograms of new material used; for any
modification of a ship increasing its tonnage, the above rates on the
net increase of tonnage.[BO] The navigation bounties were confined to
ships engaged in the foreign trade, and were to be reduced annually
during the ten years' term of the law.[BP] They were thus fixed: for
French-built ships, one franc and fifty centimes a registered ton for
every thousand sea miles sailed the first year, the rate to diminish
each succeeding year of the term seven francs and fifty centimes on
wooden ships, and five centimes on iron and steel ships; for
foreign-built ships owned by Frenchmen admitted to registry, one-half
the above rates; for French-built steamers constructed according to
plans of the Navy Department, an increase of fifteen per cent above the
ordinary rate.[BQ]
The first effect of this law was to stimulate the organization of a
number of new steamship companies, and to occasion activity in various
ship-yards, foreign (English) as well as home, in building steamships
for their service.[BR] Most of the domestic-built iron and steam tonnage
produced during the law's ten years' term was of steamers.[BS] The
tonnage of steamships increased from 278,000 tons in 1880 to 500,000
tons in 1890. Of this increase more than three-fifths were represented
by vessels bought in other countries.[BT] The results of the navigation
bounties are shown in official statistics covering the years 1882-1890.
During this period iron or steel French-built ships earning these
bounties increased from 159,714 tons to 190,831 tons, gross tonnage;
while wooden or composite tonnage decreased from 150,233 tons to 57,068
gross. Foreign-built iron or steel tonnage earning the bounties
increased from 43,787 tons to 91,170 tons, gross; and wooden or
composite tonnage increased from 1,220 tons to 9,799 tons, gross.[BS] In
1891 the law which had then reached its limit of ten years was extended
for two years. Doubting its renewal shipowners had sometime before
ceased to increase their fleets.[BS]
These results were variously pronounced unsatisfactory, and a revised or
a new law was called for, with more and higher bounties. Owners of
wooden sailing-ships were especially clamorous for larger benefits. They
argued that sailing-ships being much slower than steamers should
therefore receive higher mileage subsidies in order to compete on equal
terms with steamships.[BU]
A new law was enacted in 1893 (January 30). This act cut off bounties to
foreign-built ships, and granted increased construction premiums. The
construction subsidies were again declared to be given as "compensation
for the charges imposed on shipbuilders by the customs tariff"; the
navigation bounties, "by way of compensation for the burden imposed on
the merchant marine as an instrument for recruiting the military
marine." The construction subsidies were not to be definitely earned
till the ships were registered as French; and by ships built in France
for foreign mercantile fleets, not till they had been delivered. The
navigation bounties were accorded to French-built ships, of more than 80
tons for sailing-ships, and 100 tons gross for steamers, engaged in
making long voyages and in international coasting; and were limited to
ten years. They were based on gross tonnage per thousand sailed miles.
To merchant steamships built in accordance with plans approved by the
Navy Department, the rate of fifteen per cent above the regular
navigation bounty provided in the law of 1881, was increased to
twenty-five per cent. All ships receiving the navigation bounty were
subject to impressment in case of war.[BV]
The effect of this law appears to have been a division of the interests
of shipowners and shipbuilders. The shipowners found the builders
constantly increasing their prices until a point was reached where they
were accused of absorbing both premiums for construction and navigation,
by calculating the amount of bounty which proposed construction would
demand, and adding that amount to their cost price.[BW] The increase of
the bounty on sailing-ships was made in the expectation that it would
check their falling off, which had been rapid since the development of
steamship building; merchant sailing-ships were regarded as the best
school for seamen, all of whom in French commerce, up to the age of
forty-five, are subject at any time to draft into the national navy. It
did this and more. There resulted the "strange phenomenon," as Professor
Viallatés puts it, "of a steady increase in the sailing-fleet, while the
number of steam-ships remained stationary."[BX]
Thus, like its predecessor, unsatisfactory, the law of 1893 was
succeeded by another act further enlarging the bounty system. This law
was promulgated in 1902 (April 7). It provided three classes of bounty:
construction and navigation as before, and "commission compensation" or
"shipping premiums." The construction bounty remained as in previous
law. The navigation bounty, now introduced as awarded "as a general
compensation for the charges imposed on the merchant navy, and for the
excessive cost of vessels built in France," was increased.[BY] It was
payable to all French-built sea-going ships, steam and sailing, of over
100 tons gross, and less than fifteen years old, and was limited to
twelve years. To stimulate speed development, only ships showing a trial
speed of at least twelve knots with half load were to receive the full
navigation bounty; to those making less than twelve knots the bounty was
diminished by five per cent; to those making less than eleven, by ten
per cent. The shipping bounty was declared to be granted "as
compensation for the charges imposed on the mercantile marine" by making
merchant vessels practically schools for seamen. It was a "chartered
allowance" made to foreign-built iron or steel steamers manned under the
French flag for long voyages or for international coastwise trade, of
more than 100 gross tons, belonging to French private persons or
joint-stock or other companies, the latter having on their boards a
majority of French citizens, and the chairman and managers being French.
This allowance was reckoned on the gross tonnage, and per day while the
steamer was in actual commission (three hundred days the maximum number
in any one year).[BX] The rate varied according to the tonnage. Up to
2000 tons gross, it was fixed at five centimes per ton; from 2000 to
3000 tons, at four centimes; 3000 to 4000, three centimes; above 4000,
two centimes; over 7000, the same grant as 7000. The creation of this
"chartered allowance," as Professor Viallatés explains, was to prevent
the navigation bounty from becoming to the same extent as under the
previous law merely another form of bounty upon shipbuilding. It could
so become, he points out, only to the extent of which it exceeded the
owner's bounty.[BZ]
Not all of the shipping and navigation bounties were to go to
shipowners. Five per cent was to be retained for sailors' insurance
"with a view to reducing the deductions imposed on them for the purpose
of that insurance"; and six per cent to be reserved for distribution for
the benefit of marines, as follows: "two-thirds to the provident fund,
with a view to diminishing the deductions on mariners' pay and to
increasing the funds for assisting the victims of shipwreck and other
accidents, or their families; one-third to the invalids' fund, with a
view to granting subventions to the chambers of commerce or public
institutions for the creation and support of sailors' homes in French
ports, intended to assist the nautical population, or of any other
institutions likely to be of use to them, especially schools for
seamen." The requirement in the old law of 1793 as to the composition of
the crews of French merchant ships was modified, reducing the proportion
of sailors who must be Frenchmen.
French-built ships were privileged to chose between the shipping and the
navigation bounties. To obtain the shipping bounty for the maximum of
three hundred days steamers must make during the year a minimum of
thirty-five thousand miles if engaged in the overseas trade, or
twenty-five thousand if in "_cabotage international_."[CA] Shipowners
agreeing to maintain on routes not served by the subsidized main
steamers a regular line, performing a fixed minimum of journeys per
year, with vessels of a certain age and tonnage, were permitted to
claim, in lieu of the regular bounties, a fixed subsidy during the term
of their agreement, equal to the average of the bounties to which the
vessels in commission would be entitled for the whole of the journeys
performed. The new tonnage to be admitted to the benefit of the law was
limited to three hundred thousand gross tons of steamers and one hundred
thousand gross tons of sailing-ships; of which new tonnage freight-built
ships could form two-fifths. The appropriation for the payment of the
bounties was also limited, to guard against a too heavy burden upon the
national treasury. This was fixed at two hundred million francs: one
hundred and fifty million for the shipping and navigation bounties and
fifty million for the construction bounties.[CB]
Unforeseen results of an unsatisfactory nature followed the application
of this law. Professor Viallatés effectively states them in the fewest
words:
"To be sure of profiting by the advantages of the law the
ship-owners hastened to order vessels and to place them on the
stocks. Their haste increased when it was seen that there existed
a considerable discrepancy between the allowed tonnage and the
money appropriated. The appropriation of one hundred and fifty
million francs, opened to assure the payment of the navigation
bounties and the compensation for outfit, was much too little.
The rush was such, as soon as this formidable mistake was
discovered, that, less than nine months after its promulgation,
from December 20, 1902, the useful effect of the law was
completely exhausted."!
Thereupon resort was had to another Extra-Parliamentary commission to
frame another system. The result was a law of 1906 (April), which
separated the shipbuilder from the shipowner. The provisions for the
construction bounty were redrawn with the object, as Professor Viallatés
explains,[CC] "not only to equalize the customs duties affecting the
materials employed, but also to give the builders a compensation
sufficient to enable them to concede to the French shipowners the same
prices as foreign builders." The rates were thus fixed on gross
measurement: for iron and steel steamships, one hundred and forty-five
francs per ton; for sailing-ships, ninety-five francs per ton: these
bounties to decrease annually to four francs and fifty centimes for
steamships and three francs ninety centimes for sailing-ships during the
first ten years of the law's application, thereafter to stand at one
hundred francs and sixty-five francs, respectively; for engines and
auxiliary apparatus, twenty-seven francs fifty centimes per hundred
kilograms. The navigation bounty to owners of French or foreign-built
ships under the French flag, was calculated per day of actual running:
for steamships, four centimes per ton gross up to 3000 tons; three
centimes more up to 6000; two more to 6000 and above; for sailing-ships,
three centimes per ton up to 500 tons, two more up to 1000, and one more
to 1000 and above. This bounty to continue for the first twelve years of
the law. The provisions for fostering speed development in steamships
excluded from compensation those making on trial, half laden, less than
nine knots, in place of ten in the previous law; reduced the rate to
fifteen per cent of the bounty for those showing more than nine and less
than ten knots; and increased this rate by ten per cent for those making
at least fourteen knots, by twenty-five per cent for fifteen knots, and
thirty per cent for sixteen knots. The extra bounty equal to twenty-five
per cent of the regular navigation bounty to steamships constructed on
plans approved by the Navy Department, and the provision making all
merchant ships subject to requisition by the Government in case of war,
were retained as in previous laws.[CD] This is the law at present in
force.
The total cost of the French bounty system in the twenty-four years from
its establishment with the law of 1881 to 1904, when the law of 1902 had
practically run out, was in round numbers upward of three hundred and
eighty-one million francs. Professor Viallatés shows that the new law of
1906 would absorb during the first seven years of its application,
upward of eighty-four million francs.[CE]
These construction and navigation bounties are exclusive of the
subventions to steamships for carrying the mails. The establishment of
the French postal ocean steamship subsidy system dates back to 1857,
when a contract was made with the Union Maritime Company for a service
to New York, Mexico, and the West Indies. The assertion is made by
Professor Meeker that the French postal subventions paid "ostensibly
for the furtherance of the mails," are "both greater in amount and more
influential upon shipbuilding, navigation, and commerce than are the
general premiums upon shipbuilding and navigation."[CF] Says Viallatés:
"The system is calculated to secure regular and rapid postal
communication with certain countries beyond seas, and at the same
time to constitute an auxiliary fleet capable of being utilized
by the navy in times of war. The existence of fixed lines with
constant service is also a means of favoring the expansion of the
national commerce. The State obtains, moreover, in exchange for
the subsidy, direct advantages; the free carriage of the mails
and the funds of the public treasury; transport of officials at a
reduced price, and of arms and stores destined for the service of
the State."
Meeker:
"The greater part of the concealed subventions undoubtedly goes
to the shipbuilders, for all mail contract steamers must be built
in French yards and of French materials. These first costs are
estimated to be from twenty-five to fifty per cent greater in
France than in England."[CG]
There is no competition in the letting of the French mail contracts.
They go to four steamship concerns. For many years more than one half of
the total steam tonnage of France has been owned by these four
subsidized lines: the _Compagnie Générale Transatlantique_, the
_Compagnie des Messagéries Maritimes_, the _Chargeurs Réunis_, and the
_Compagnie Fraissant_.[CG]
The great ship-yards have developed a capacity for building steamships
of the largest class. The tonnage since 1881, when it had fallen to
914,000 tons, had increased only to 1,052,193 tons in 1900. By 1910-11,
it had reached 1,882,280 tons.[CH] The total mail subsidies average, in
round numbers, five million dollars a year, while the construction and
navigation bounties amount to three and a half million dollars
additional.
Practically every French vessel floating the French flag and engaged in
foreign trade either receives or has received subsidies, or bounties,
from the Government.[CI]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote BD: Meeker.]
[Footnote BE: Lindsay, vol. III.]
[Footnote BF: Rear-Admiral Alfred T. Mahan, "The Influence of Sea Power
upon History," pp. 105-107.]
[Footnote BG: Mahan, p. 73.]
[Footnote BH: Lindsay, vol. III.]
[Footnote BI: Prof. Achille Viallatés, "How France Protects Her Merchant
Marine," in North American Review, vol. 184, 1907.]
[Footnote BJ: Lindsay, vol. III.]
[Footnote BK: Lindsay, vol. III, also Viallatés.]
[Footnote BL: Viallatés.]
[Footnote BM: Lindsay, vol. III, pp. 457-458.]
[Footnote BN: Viallatés.]
[Footnote BO: Meeker. Also Wells, pp. 163-164, _note_.]
[Footnote BP: Wells, pp. 163-164, _note._]
[Footnote BQ: Meeker. Also Wells.]
[Footnote BR: Wells, p. 164.]
[Footnote BS: Meeker.]
[Footnote BT: Viallatés.]
[Footnote BU: Meeker.]
[Footnote BV: For this law see Meeker.]
[Footnote BW: U.S. Consul Robert Skinner, Marseilles; Con. Repts., xol.
XVIII (1900), p. 36.]
[Footnote BX: Viallatés.]
[Footnote BY: Meeker.]
[Footnote BZ: North American Review, vol. CLXXXIV, 1907.]
[Footnote CA: Embracing voyages within the limits of the ports of the
Mediterranean, North Africa, and Europe below the Arctic
circle--Meeker.]
[Footnote CB: Meeker and Viallatés, summaries of this law.]
[Footnote CC: North American Review, vol. CLXXXIV, 1907.]
[Footnote CD: For this law see Senate Doc. no. 488, 59th Cong., 1st
sess.]
[Footnote CE: North American Review, vol. CLXXXIV, 1907.]
[Footnote CF: Meeker.]
[Footnote CG: Meeker.]
[Footnote CH: Lloyd's Register, 1910-11.]
[Footnote CI: Senate Rept., no. 10, 59th, Cong., 1st sess.]
CHAPTER IV
GERMANY
Germany was a close follower of France in the adoption of the direct
ship bounty system. Only two months after the promulgation of the
initial French law of 1881, Bismarck brought the question before the
Reichstag, with an exhibit of this act. In an elaborate memorial (April
6, 1881) he reviewed the general subject of State bounties and subsidies
to shipping in various maritime countries, and closed with this pointed
declaration: "It is deserving of serious consideration whether, under
the circumstances as given, German shipping and German commerce can
hope" for further prosperous developments as against the competition of
other nations aided by public funds and assistance.[CJ]
At this time the German marine was represented by a substantial fleet of
merchant steamships, but all were foreign-built, mostly from British
ship-yards. The Government was paying only a postal subsidy of about
forty-seven thousand dollars--a sum in proportion to the weight of the
parcels forwarded--in the overseas trade to the participating German
steam lines. A first step had been taken indirectly in favor of domestic
shipbuilding six years earlier (1879), when Bismarck, in introducing the
general protective system, exempted this industry, and free entry was
permitted to German ship-yards of materials used in the construction and
equipment of merchant as well as of war-ships, which then were only on
the domestic stocks.[CK] Bismarck's proposal of 1881, to meet French
subsidies with German subsidies, was avowedly with the single object of
promoting with State aid a German mercantile marine.
The project was brought before the Reichstag early in 1884 and warmly
discussed. Earnest protests were raised against it by shipping merchants
of the chief German seaports;[CL] while earnest support came from other
merchants and varied interests. The initial proposal was for the
establishment of a subsidized mail service by German steamships. It
contemplated an annual subsidy of four million marks, with fifteen
years' contracts, for such service between Germany and Australia and
East Asia. The measure was defeated in the Reichstag that year. Brought
forward the next year (1885), and in a new form, it was finally enacted
in April and went into effect the following July.
This law increased the annual subsidy from four million marks as first
proposed to four million four hundred thousand marks, of which one
million seven hundred thousand was offered for the East Asian line, to
China and Japan; two million three hundred thousand for the Australian
line, and four hundred thousand for a branch line connecting Trieste
|
fire of an inevitable conflict, nor Germany, nor all the Teuton lands;
it is the whole world, that sold its birthright for a mess of pottage
and now, in terror of the price at last to be paid, denounces the
infamous contract and fights to the death against the armies of the
Moloch it helped to fashion. And when the field is won, what happens but
the coming into its own again of the very power that made Reims and
Louvain, the recovery of the old and righteous and Christian standard of
values, the building on the ruins of five centuries of a new
civilisation where whatever art that remains will play its due part as
the revealer of that Absolute Truth that brought it into being,
forgotten now for very long? Then the pictures of Flanders and Umbria
and Tuscany, the sculpture of France, the music of Teuton and Slav, the
“minor arts” of all mediævalism, the architecture of Bourges and Amiens
and Chartres will both reveal and inspire with doubled power.
And in all and through all, Reims in its ruin will be a more potent
agency of regeneration than the perfection of Chartres or the finality
of Bourges.
I should like to consider, though briefly and in the light of a very
real unity that negatived the political disunity that has always
prevailed, the art of these lands where for a twelvemonth millions of
men have fought after a fashion never known before, while around them
each day saw the irreparable destruction of the best that man could do
for the love of God, and better than he can do now. In spite of
constantly changing
[Illustration: THE HALL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF LOUVAIN]
frontiers and dynastic vicissitudes, the great unity of mediævalism
blends the Rhineland, Flanders, Brabant, Luxembourg, Artois, Champagne,
Eastern Normandy, Eastern France, into a consistent whole, so far as all
real things are concerned. In spite of its bickerings and fightings and
jealousies and plots and counterplots, Europe was really more united,
more a working whole, during the Middle Ages than ever it has been
since. One religion and one philosophy did for the fluctuant states what
the Reformation, democracy, and “enlightenment” could only undo, and in
this vanishing art, which, after all, is the truest history man can
record, we find the dynamic force, the creative power, of a culture and
a civilisation that took little count of artificial barriers between
perfectly artificial nations, but included all in the greatest and most
beneficent syntheses Europe has ever known.
The art of this land--or these lands, if you like--should be so
considered; not as an interesting and even stimulating by-product of
social, industrial, and political evolution, with only an accidental
relationship to them, and only an empirical interest for the men of
to-day, but as the most perfect material expression of the great
reality that existed through and by these agencies that were in
themselves nothing; the character that emerged through the turmoil of
human activity, as it shows itself in the men and women of the time, and
expresses itself in their art.
To do this fully is impossible; every province would require a volume,
every art a series of volumes, but at least we can catalogue again the
more salient qualities of the greater masterpieces, and try to
co-ordinate them into some outward semblance of that essential unity
they both promised and expressed.
II
THE FORGING OF MEDIÆVALISM
It is not a large land, this Heart of Europe; three hundred and fifty
miles perhaps from the Alps to the sea, and not more than two hundred
and fifty from the Seine at Paris to the Rhine at Cologne; half the
size, shall we say, of Texas; but what Europe was for the thousand years
following the fall of Rome, this little country--or the men that made it
great--was responsible. Add the rest of Normandy, and the spiritual
energy of the Holy See, with a varying and sometimes negligible
influence from the Teutonic lands beyond the Rhine, and you have the
mainsprings of mediævalism, even though for its full manifestation you
must take into account the men in the far countries of the Italian
peninsula and the Iberian, in France and England, Bavaria, Saxony,
Bohemia.
The great empires of to-day, England, France, Germany, Italy, two of
which have eaten steadily into its territories until only a tiny
Luxembourg remains, together with a small new state with a novel name
made greater and more lasting by the events of a year than those of its
predecessors, have dulled the memory of an ancient unity, taking to
themselves at the same time credit, that is none of theirs, for men and
happenings that made ten centuries of enduring history; so the glory,
the high achievements of the small old states are forgotten. And yet,
out of these little dukedoms and counties and free cities came the men
who made France and Germany, who determined the genius of mediævalism,
imparted to it the high soul and the swift hand of its peculiar
personality, and gave to the world the memory and tradition of faith and
heroism, together with so much of that inimitable art that was its
perfect showing forth, and, until yesterday, a visible monument of its
accomplishment.
National unity this territory and these peoples have never possessed.
During the Roman dominion they formed the provinces of Germania and
Belgica, in the diocese of Gaul; under the Merovings all was comprised
in the Frankish kingdom, the old line between the Roman provinces
remaining to divide Austrasia and Neustria, as the northern and southern
sections came to be called under the Carolings. With the disruption of
the empire of Charlemagne, Austrasia went to the kingdom of the East
Franks, Neustria to that of the West Franks, the former becoming (west
of the Rhine) the duchies of Upper and Lower Lorraine, the latter (east
of the Seine) Flanders and Champagne. When Otto the Great restored the
Holy Roman Empire in A. D. 962, the Lorraines of course formed a part.
These comprised all that is now (or was, in June, 1915) Germany west of
the Rhine, together with all of Belgium except Flanders, Luxembourg, and
a strip of territory along the northeast frontier of France. Westward to
the Seine the land was divided into many feudal holdings, Flanders,
which then comprised not only northern Belgium but the present French
departments of Nord and Pas de Calais; Champagne, Amiens, Vermandois,
Laon, Reims, Châlons. During the Middle Ages Lower Lorraine became the
duchy of Brabant and the county of Hainault. Upper Lorraine, Luxembourg
and Bar, southern Flanders, Artois. Picardy and Valois became entities,
and the great bishoprics of Cologne, Trèves, Strasbourg, Cambray, Liége
acquired more and more land until they were principalities in
themselves.
During the fifteenth century the magnificent efforts of the dukes of
Burgundy to create for themselves an independent state between France
and the Empire, and reaching from the Rhine to the Aisne, from the Alps
to the sea, resulted in a partial and temporary unification of the old
Belgian lands, but with the death of Mary of Burgundy in 1482, the whole
territory became more and more closely knit into the Empire, France
losing even her claim to suzerainty over Flanders; all the lands west of
the Meuse and over the Rhine as far as the Ems became the Netherlands,
comprising roughly what is now Holland and Belgium. The duchies of
Luxembourg, Bar, and Lorraine, with the Palatinate, shared all that lay
between the Meuse and the Rhine, save what the great bishoprics had
assumed to themselves, while Burgundy (except the Franche-Comté) and
Lorraine were definitively merged in France.
Then came the Spanish dominion over the whole territory, barring the
duchy of Julich along the Rhine; the revolt of Holland and the severing
of the United Netherlands north of the Rhine from the Spanish
territories; finally, in 1715, after 160 years of ruinous domination,
Spain was driven out and Austria succeeded in Flanders, Brabant, and
Luxembourg, maintaining herself there until the time of Napoleon a
century later, when for a few years everything as far as the Rhine,
together with the Netherlands on the other side, was incorporated in
France. With the fading of the splendid dream of a Napoleonic empire,
Holland and Belgium, as we know them now, came into existence, the lands
of the duchy of Julich went to Prussia, the Palatinate to Bavaria.
Luxembourg was reduced to its existing area and the French frontier
delimited as it is now, except for Alsace and Lorraine, which were lost
in 1870.
Between the upper and nether millstones of France and the Empire, the
Heart of Europe for fifteen centuries has been ground into fragments of
ever-changing form, never able to coalesce into unity, but producing
ever in spite of political chaos and dynastic oppression great ideals of
piety, righteousness, liberty; great art-manifestations of the vigour
and nobility of race, great figures to uphold and enforce the lofty
principles that have made so much of the brilliant history of mediæval
Europe, and all centring around the lands of the many tribes who from
earliest times were known as the Belgæ.
They enter well into history, these Belgæ, in the fifty-seventh year
before the birth of Christ, Nervii, Veromandri, Atrobates, from the
valleys of the Meuse and the Sambre, as Cæsar found and declared, “that
day against the Nervii,” when the battle for the winning of this new
land was his by hardly more than a chance. The tribes were hard and
free, and they died in the end almost to a man, five hundred remaining
out of fifty thousand warriors. But Cæsar was magnanimous, as always,
and by no means without appreciation of his adversaries, so Allies of
Rome, with full claim on her protection, they became, with the rank and
title of a free people, as they have remained at heart ever since. In
seven years the last of the tribes had surrendered and Belgium became a
flourishing colony as well as the advance-guard of Roman civilisation in
its progress against the savage Germans of the Rhine. By the fall of the
Empire a great and united people had come into being between Gaul and
Germania, divided into four great sections with their several capitols
at Trèves, Reims, Mainz, and Cologne.
Meanwhile the Franks had come on the scene, though their name is rather
a rallying-cry than a mark of race, meaning only that certain of the
tribes of Gaul, with others of the Belgæ, were determined to be free--as
they became shortly and as they have generally remained ever since. Now
the Salian Franks were the dwellers in Flanders and Brabant and under
their Duke Clodion had extended their borders as far as Soissons.
Clodion’s successor, Merovæus, was grandfather of Clovis, the first
Christian king of the north. The Merovings, then, are neither strictly
of Gaul nor of Germany, but of the Heart of Europe itself, and their
blood, like that of their followers, a mingling of Germanic and Celtic
and Roman strains.
Châlons saw them allied with the Romans and driving back the fierce tide
of the earlier Huns that threatened to beat out the last flicker of
light in Europe: Tolbiac saw them hurl back the savage Allemanni, in the
year 496, again preserving the European tradition from submergence under
barbarian hordes, nor was this the last time they were to perform this
service. Already Clovis had married Clotilde, niece of the Duke of
Burgundy, so bringing another region into close contact with his own,
and now, after the successful issue of the battle of Tolbiac, when he
had first called on the God of Christians, he presented himself before
the Archbishop of Reims, St. Remi, for baptism, where he heard the
significant words: “Bow thy proud head, Sicambrian! destroy what thou
hast worshipped, worship what thou hast destroyed.”
Whatever the motive, and however inadequate the performance of his new
obligations by Clovis, his baptism is one of the crucial events in
history, marking the end of paganism as a controlling force, and with
the conquest of Italy by Theodoric and the promulgation of the Holy Rule
of St. Benedict, the beginning of the great Christian era of culture and
civilisation that was to endure, unimpaired, for a thousand years.
The dominion of Clovis comprised all that is now France south to the
Loire and Burgundy, with Holland, Belgium, Switzerland, and Bavaria, but
his capital was at Tournai, and he was in fact even more a Belgian than
a French sovereign. Under him all the Franks were united and his power
was such that the Emperor at Constantinople made him patrician, consul,
and Augustus. With his death in 511 began a long era of division and
reunion, of internecine warfare and the plotting of jealous women, two
of whom, Fredegonde personifying the Gallic influence, Brunhilde the
Germanic, fostered a conflict that hardly came to an end before the fall
of the dynasty.
Little by little the Merovings broke away from their racial Belgic
affiliations, Soissons became the capital rather than Tournai, and at
last by a dramatic turn of fate another Belgian race brought the
decrepit line to its term and founded a new and a nobler house. Pepin of
Landen, in the province of Liége, became mayor of the palace and the
active influence in royal affairs, somewhere about the year 620, and it
was a son of his daughter, Pepin of Herstel (a town also in the province
of Liége) who was father of Charles Martel, who in his turn was the
grandfather of Charlemagne.
As the Huns and the Allemanni had been rolled back from their savage
incursions by the aid of men of Belgic nationality, so now the greater
threat of an onrushing Mohammedanism was to be dispelled by another and
a greater personality, Charles the Hammer, a soldier of consummate
ability, the real ruler of all the Franks, and the victor at the battle
of Tours when final decision was reached as to whether Europe was for
the future to be Moslem or Christian.
Charles Martel died when only fifty years of age, and his son Pepin
succeeded him as mayor of the palace. The fiction of Meroving kingship
could no longer be maintained; the stock was hopelessly degenerate; the
people demanded an end, the Pope sanctioned it, and so, after a most
orderly fashion Childeric III betook himself to a convenient cloister,
Pepin was raised on the shields of the Gallic soldiers, then decently
crowned in St. Denis, and the dynasty of the Carolings began. For
sixteen years he reigned as kings had not been wont to reign for many
centuries; Saxony, Brittany, Languedoc were added to the Frankish
dominions, Rome twice saved from the Lombard invaders, and the Papacy
made the faithful ally and defender of the Frankish kingdom, then the
one great power in Europe.
There were more reasons than that of policy for this alliance.
Practically abandoned by the Roman Emperors in the east, Italy had been
the prey of tribe after tribe of northern savages, and the Papacy was
the only centre of order and authority. In spite of this the Popes still
shrank from severing themselves wholly from the imperial centre, but the
iconoclastic controversy had resulted in what was both heresy and schism
on the part of the patriarchate of Constantinople, and communion was no
longer possible. Moreover, all the other northern tribes that had
accepted Christianity--Goths, Vandals, Lombards--had adopted the Arian
heresy and were therefore even more distasteful to Rome than unconverted
heathen. This condition of things justified the Papacy in its attitude
of intolerance, and when Pepin came to the throne, it was almost at the
last gasp, through persecution, spoliation, and outrage at the hands of
the Teutonic Arians. The Frankish kingdom alone was Catholic, and
enthusiastically Catholic, and it is small wonder that to the Pope the
rise of a great and powerful and Catholic nation under the dominating
Carolings came as a special mercy from heaven--as, indeed, it was.
With the death of Pepin and the accession of his son Charles--known now
for all time as Charlemagne--the curtain rose on one of the most
brilliant dramas of history. The Lombards had again revolted; Pope
Hadrian called on the Franks in despair; King Charles hurled his armies
into Italy like an avalanche, captured and deposed Desiderius, last of
the Lombard kings, proclaimed himself King of Lombardy, pressed on to
Rome, and was welcomed there by the Supreme Pontiff as the saviour of
Christendom.
He would, however, accept no formal honours save that of patrician, and
returned to the north to continue the work of his father in
consolidating and extending the kingdom. For twenty-four years he was
engaged in innumerable wars, in eager efforts to restore education,
political order, ecclesiastical righteousness, and even some small
measure of genuine culture, with results that seem miraculous in the
light of what had been before for so many centuries. Finally, in the
year 799, he went again to Rome, where Leo III now sat in the chair of
Peter, and at mass on Christmas Day, A. D. 800, the Pope came suddenly
behind him as he was kneeling before the altar in St. Peter’s and,
placing a crown on his head, cried in a loud voice: “Life and victory to
Charles, the great and pacific Emperor of the Romans, crowned by the
hand of God!” and after three centuries and more of anarchy, barbarism,
and hopeless degeneration, the empire was restored as the Holy Roman
Empire, in the person of a Frankish warrior of the lands of the Belgæ,
and destined to endure for another thousand years.
Aix-la-Chapelle is the very centre of the land and the people that
built up the Christian civilisation of the Middle Ages, and it was here
that Charlemagne fixed his chief place of residence. During his lifetime
it was the very, and the only, centre of order and of culture in Europe.
A great warrior, he was an even greater administrator, while as the
restorer of learning and the patron of art and letters he was perhaps
greatest of all. When he came to the throne there lay behind him nearly
four centuries of absolute anarchy and barbarism, from the Baltic to the
Mediterranean and from the Atlantic to the marches of the Teutonic
savages. What he built he built from the ground upward, and though his
was only the “false dawn” that heralds the day, passing utterly, so far
as one could see, within a generation after his death, it was the saving
of Europe, the preservation of the succession, that, the second Dark
Ages overpassed, guaranteed the coming in of the great era that began
with the millennial year of Christianity and lasted for five full
centuries.
Under his direction a complete administrative system was established
over the unwieldy empire; local governments were set up, with a system
of regular visitations from the central authority, and in this way the
foundations were laid for the counties of Flanders, Brabant, Hainault,
into which, together with Vermandois, Valois, Amiens, and Champagne,
this territory of our survey was divided during the Middle Ages.
In religion, education, and art Charlemagne went far beyond his
predecessors for five centuries, so far as the form and re-creation are
concerned. Separated at last from the church in the East, now definitely
schismatic, heretical, and Erastian, the Papacy was in a position to go
on unhindered in its development, and Charlemagne became not only a
defender but a zealous and enthusiastic reformer. Monasticism was
universally strengthened and extended, new bishoprics were founded, the
state of the Holy See purified, while schools were established in
connection with cathedrals and monasteries throughout the Empire.
Charles had a great passion for scholars and artists, gathering them
from Italy, Spain, England, wherever, indeed, they were to be found, and
for a time his court was the nucleus of culture in the West.
Architecture was reborn, all the ravelled threads from Rome,
Constantinople, Ravenna, Syria were gathered up and knit together, and
though few authentic works from among the myriads of the Emperor’s
creation still remain, we know from what we have, and chiefly the royal
chapel at Aix, that the result was the restoring once more of a line of
continuity after the vast vacancy of the Dark Ages, and the initiation
of a new vitality that, after the second Dark Ages, was to serve as the
energising power that brought Romanesque art into existence and made
possible the great glory of Gothic.
Great as he was, Charlemagne had all the weaknesses of his racial
tradition, and by yielding to these his era was his alone, nor could it
outlast his personal influence. Divided between his successors, the
Empire rapidly and naturally fell to pieces during the lifetime of Louis
le Debonnaire, who for a brief period had succeeded in uniting it again,
and during the second Dark Ages, from 850 to 1000 A. D., there is no
more of note to record in this region than in any other part of Europe.
The era had culminated under Charlemagne; it was now to sink to its end,
as always had happened before, as always, so far as we can see, must
continue to happen. Not until the turn of the tide at the year 1000
could a real recovery begin. In the meantime history is little more than
a series of personal contests, but out of these certain beginnings are
made that are to have issue in great things, and amongst these are the
appearance of the first Baldwin of Flanders and the establishing of the
first hereditary title, and therefore the oldest in Europe. Baldwin of
the Iron Arm successfully fought the Vikings, driving them west until
they were forced to content themselves with the land they ultimately
made immortal as Normandy. His son married a daughter of Alfred the
Great, so establishing a certain connection between England and
Flanders, and by fortifying Bruges, Ypres, Ghent, and Courtrai, he did
much toward fixing these cities as centres of municipal life and of that
fierce independence that marked them for so many generations.
With the opening of the new era, at the beginning of the eleventh
century, a new vitality shows itself in the land. William of Normandy
had become the son-in-law of Baldwin V, and from Flanders many knights
joined the Conqueror for his invasion of England, one becoming first
Earl of Northumberland, another first Earl of Chester. Under Baldwin VI
complete peace was restored to the distracted provinces, while the
Charter of Grammont is a landmark in that development
[Illustration: THE CHAPEL AT AIX]
of personal and civil liberty which is one of the great glories of
mediævalism. The Tribunal of Peace, established by the Bishop of Liége,
is another shining sign of the times, while the defeat of France in its
attacks on Flemish independence assured a long period of splendid
development.
This was enhanced by the Crusades, and here, particularly in the first,
the Heart of Europe showed the quality of the blood that was its life.
Whatever the Crusades may have become after long years, they were in
their earliest impulse supreme examples of human faith, unselfishness,
devotion, heroism, and piety. The redemption of the Holy Places of
Christianity from the infidel became a passion, and the protagonist, the
moving and vitalising spirit, was one Peter the Hermit, of the province
of Liége, who, crucifix in hand, toiled through eastern France, the
Netherlands, the Rhineland, as well as through his own country,
exhorting prince and peasant to take up arms for the freeing of the Holy
Land from the Saracen.
His success was almost miraculous, for the great adventure appealed to
every instinct of the time--piety, reverence, chivalry, romance, the
passion for a new and venturesome and knightly quest--and in less than
two years the Pope himself set his seal of approbation on the First
Crusade. In Clermont, in the year 1095, surrounded by four hundred
bishops and mitred abbots, he cried to the waiting multitudes of Europe:
“Are we called upon to see in this century the desolation of
Christianity and to remain at peace the while our holy religion is given
over into the hands of the oppressor? Here is a lawful war; go, defend
the House of Israel!” Almost with a single voice Europe made answer with
the rallying-cry: “God wills it!” Every scarlet garment was shredded in
pieces to furnish crosses which were sewn to the shoulders; some even
branded themselves with the sign of the cross by means of red-hot irons.
Within another year an army of 100,000 men had been gathered together,
under the leadership of Peter, himself, and it poured across Europe as
far as Constantinople, a disorganised and impotent mob. It met its fate
as soon as it had crossed the Bosporus into Saracen territory, and only
a shattered remnant, including the originator of the mad venture, ever
returned to its home. In the meantime, however, a greater captain than
Peter the Hermit, and of the same race, was gathering the enormous host
that succeeded where he had failed. Godfrey of Bouillon, of the province
of Liége, a great scholar and greater soldier, gathered 90,000 knights
and men-at-arms in Flanders and Brabant, and set out for Jerusalem on
the 10th of August, 1096. A month later the French under command of the
King’s brother, and the Flemings under Robert, Count of Flanders,
followed in his track. Baldwin of Bourg, the Counts of Hainault, Namur,
Grez, Audenaarde, and Ypres, with knights of Dixmude, Alost, Bruges,
Ghent, Brussels, and Tournai were amongst the leaders, and a
concentration was effected at Constantinople when there were no less
than 600,000 in all. Crossing into Asia, the great host swept onward
from one victory to another; the battle of Dorylæum, fought on the 4th
of July, 1097, proved them invincible. Tarsus and Antioch fell, and
nothing lay between them and Jerusalem. The city was besieged and
finally carried by assault, the attack beginning on the 14th of July,
and after a week of incessant fighting on the walls and through the
streets, Jerusalem was wholly in the hands of the Crusaders. But the
host that set out from its many sources in Europe had vanished and only
a tenth of the original number remained to fight the relieving army from
Egypt at Ascalon, and to organise the victory. Five hundred thousand men
had perished on the long march, died of disease, or fallen in battle.
Godfrey of Bouillon became the first King of Jerusalem, the choice
resting between him and Robert of Flanders. He reigned only a year, and
was succeeded by his brother Baldwin, who had made himself Count of
Edessa, and whose descendants continued on the throne for several
generations.
In all the succeeding Crusades, Flanders and Brabant, Lorraine,
Champagne, and Burgundy played leading parts, and in the fifth, when the
arms of the knights were turned from the relief of Jerusalem to the
conquest of the Byzantine Empire, another Baldwin of Flanders was
leader, and, after the fall of Constantinople, became the first Latin
Emperor of the East, his dynasty continuing on the throne for fifty
years.
Amazing as were the results of the Crusades, with the conquering of the
Saracens in the Holy Land, and the overthrow of the Eastern Empire, a
Walloon being crowned first King of Jerusalem and a Fleming first Latin
Emperor of Byzantium, the local results had no permanency, Jerusalem
falling again to the Mussulmans after a century and a half,
Constantinople reverting to the Eastern line at about the same time. In
Europe, however, the results had been of profound import; directly, the
Crusades had had a vast influence in determining the temper and the
course of mediævalism, indirectly they had laid the foundations of the
industrial supremacy of the Belgian cities and of the emancipation of
the people from feudalism. The Saracen of the twelfth century was the
antithesis of the Ottoman Turk of to-day, and from him the Crusaders
learned much to their advantage, while from the Eastern Empire came new
impulses toward the development of a broader culture than the West alone
could have achieved. So far as the cities of Flanders, Brabant, and
Lorraine were concerned, the absence of their martial and turbulent
knights was by no means an unmixed catastrophe. The vast expeditions
demanded vast expenditures: money came generally into use in place of
barter; the common people who remained at home developed their
industries, increased their wealth, and in the end took into their own
hands much of the business of the government. The habit and tradition
of independence and liberty which so grew up, maintained itself steadily
against all assaults, nor has it lapsed or waned, as the last year has
gloriously proved, and many of the tall towers that became the
recognised symbol of civic independence still stand in testimony, though
one by one they are falling before the armed negation of all they rose
to proclaim.
III
FLANDERS AND BRABANT
In a study such as this tries to be, it is, of course, impossible to
consider in any degree the history of those portions of the chosen
territory that joined themselves to, or were by force incorporated in,
the great surrounding states. The Rhineland, in spite of its minor
vicissitudes of lordship, is and has always been Germanic, and its
annals are part and parcel of those of the Teutonic Holy Roman Empire
and of the German Empire that succeeded it. The marshes of the mouth of
the Rhine early differentiated themselves both from Germany and from the
Gallic provinces farther south; Dutch they were and Dutch they will ever
remain; their history and their culture and their art are by themselves.
The same is true of Champagne, Picardy, Burgundy, Bar, and of the lands
between them and the Seine. This is France, and its history is the
history of France even if its art takes enduring colour from a
persistent quality in its people that is its own and not simply that of
the Franks and Normans and Celts who coalesced around the old Île de
France to the building of one of the great peoples and one of the great
states in history. Each gave more than it received when it became a part
of a state that was slowly building itself out of assembling races and
peoples, but each was like the daughter of a house; however much she
might bring to some alliance, of fortune or character or power, she
became merged in her new family, forsaking her name and accepting that
of her chosen spouse, together with his ambitions, his interests, and
his fortunes. We may then consider the outlying lands of our central
district as so many fair daughters who have allied themselves with
suitors from neighbouring territories; remembering them with affection,
taking pride in the dowries they have carried with them, but confining
ourselves to the fortunes of the men of the line who have preserved the
family name and defended its honour in the field. In this sense
Flanders, Brabant, and Luxembourg are the three princes to whom was
given the defence of the patrimony that has been theirs from the ancient
times of the earliest beginnings of the house amongst the Gallic and
Germanic tribes of the Rhine valley, the meadows and uplands of the
Scheldt and the Meuse and the Sambre, and in the Forest of Ardennes.
As the Heart of Europe gradually became parcelled out between the great
adjoining empires, each taking its colour more or less from the central
influences, while in every instance contributing something in its turn
to the sum that made up the varying greatness of both, the essential
qualities of the original Belgæ seemed to concentrate in the little
province of Flanders, which, during the whole of the Middle Ages, played
a part in Europe strikingly disproportionate to its size, which was less
than half that of the State of Connecticut, though it contained over
1,200,000 people and counted cities like Ghent with 250,000 population,
Ypres with 200,000, Bruges and Courtrai with 100,000 each. At the same
time London could boast only 35,000 citizens. In trade, industry,
wealth, culture, and the standard of living Flanders was far in advance
of the rest of northern Europe, while it was marked by a perfect passion
for liberty not only for the state but for each individual member
thereof.
Every portion of the land we are considering made its own contribution,
early or late, to the great sum of mediævalism, but it would be
impossible to consider, even superficially, the gifts of Champagne,
Burgundy, the Rhineland. This book does not assume to be a history, it
is only a sequence of notes on the lost or imperilled art of the Heart
of Europe, with just so much of history as may serve to suggest what lay
behind and gave this art its peculiar and unmatched quality.
The great elements that entered into this art and this civilisation that
were pre-eminently the art and civilisation of Christianity were
primarily two: northern blood and monastic fervour. To the worn-out
vitality of the Mediterranean races came in the fresh vigour of the
North, Lombard, Germanic, Norman, Frank, while the monastic impulse
imparted by St. Benedict broke the spell of the Dark Ages, made possible
the “false dawn” of Carolingian civilisation, and then, through its
successors, the monks of Cluny in the eleventh century and the
Cistercians in the twelfth, brought to perfection and to complete
fulness of expression all the latent possibilities in the clean new
blood that had been transfused into the hardening veins of an Europe
already dangerously near dissolution.
These elements of new blood were chiefly supplied by the Franks (both of
the East and the West), the Burgundians, and the Normans, the latter
being descendants of the Vikings from the Baltic. The Belgæ were a
subdivision of the Franks, and made up of several tribes, Trevii,
Eburones, Nervii, etc. Generally speaking, they were Germanic, with a
considerable Celtic admixture. The Cluniac and Cistercian reforms came
from Burgundy, which is partially within the limits of our study, though
later they received great accessions of strength from natives of
Flanders, Brabant, the Rhineland, and Champagne. During the eleventh
century Normandy was the spiritual centre, the dynamic force, of Europe,
while in the twelfth century the leadership was assumed by the Île de
France, as wholly under the inspiration of the Cistercians as Normandy
had been under that of the Cluniacs. It was during these two centuries
that the great burst of Norman and of Gothic architecture occurred in
the Île de France, in Normandy, and in Champagne.
The contributions of the land we now know as Belgium were quite
different; they were at the same time a product of mediæval culture and
one of its causes, for they grew out of the deep and vital impulses
beneath the whole epoch, while they seemed to determine many of its
manifestations. The first of these, the Crusades, has already been
referred to; the second, the great guild system, with its concomitant,
the commune, and its result, a desire for personal, civic, and national
liberty that became a passion, needs
|
'tis real love,
Where nature triumphs over wretched art;
We only warm the head, but you the heart.
Always you warm; and if the rising year,
As in hot regions, brings the sun too near,
'Tis but to make your fragrant spices blow,
Which in our cooler climates will not grow.
They only think you animate your theme
With too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm.
Prizes would be for lags of slowest pace,
Were cripples made the judges of the race.
Despise those drones, who praise, while they accuse,
The too much vigour of your youthful muse.
That humble style, which they your virtue make,
Is in your power; you need but stoop and take.
Your beauteous images must be allowed
By all, but some vile poets of the crowd.
But how should any sign-post dauber know
The worth of Titian, or of Angelo?
Hard features every bungler can command;
To draw true beauty, shews a master's hand.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 23: Our author alludes to the copy of verses addressed to him
by Lee, on his drama, called the "State of Innocence," and which the
reader will find in Vol. V. p. 103. Dryden expresses some apprehension,
lest his friend and he should be considered as vouching for each other's
genius, in the same manner that Bessus and the two swordsmen, in "King
and no King," grant certificates of each others courage, after having
been all soundly beaten and kicked by Bacurius.
"_2 Swordsman._ Captain, we must request your hand now to our honours.
_Bessus._ Yes, marry shall ye; and then let all the world come, we are
valiant to ourselves, and there's an end." _Act V._]
[Footnote 24: The person thus distinguished seems to be the gallant Sir
Edward Spragge, noted for his gallantry in the two Dutch wars, and
finally killed in the great battle of 11th August, 1672. In 1671, he was
sent to the Mediterranean with a squadron, to chastise the Algerines. He
found seven vessels belonging to these pirates, lying in the bay of
Bugia, covered by the fire of a castle and forts, and defended by a
boom, drawn across the entrance of the bay, made of yards, top-masts,
and cables, buoyed up by casks. Nevertheless, Sir Edward bore into the
bay, silenced the forts, and, having broken the boom with his pinnaces,
sent in a fire-ship, which effectually destroyed the Algerine squadron;
a blow which was long remembered by these piratical states.]
EPISTLE THE SIXTH.
TO THE
EARL OF ROSCOMMON,
ON HIS EXCELLENT
ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE.
The Earl of Roscommon's "Essay on Translated Verse," a work which
abounds with much excellent criticism, expressed in correct, succinct,
and manly language, was first published in 4to, in 1680: a second
edition, corrected and enlarged, appeared in 1684. To both editions are
prefixed the following copy of verses by our author; and to the second
there is also one in Latin by his son Charles Dryden, afterwards
translated by Mr Needler.
The high applause which our author has here and elsewhere[25] bestowed
on the "Essay on Translated Verse," is censured by Dr Johnson, as
unmerited and exaggerated. But while something is allowed for the
partiality of a friend, and the zeal of a panegyrist, it must also be
remembered, that the rules of criticism, now so well known as to be even
trite and hackneyed, were then almost new to the literary world, and
that translation was but then beginning to be emancipated from the
fetters of verbal and literal versions. But Johnson elsewhere does
Roscommon more justice, where he acknowledges, that "he improved taste,
if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the
benefactors of English literature."
Dryden has testified, in several places of his works, that he loved and
honoured Roscommon; particularly by inscribing and applying to him his
version of the Third Ode of the First Book of Horace.[26] Roscommon
repaid these favours by a copy of verses addressed to Dryden on the
"Religio Laici."[27]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 25: See Vol. XII. p. 264.]
[Footnote 26: Vol. XII. p. 341.]
[Footnote 27: Vol. X. p. 33.]
EPISTLE THE SIXTH.
Whether the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore,
The seeds of arts and infant science bore,
'Tis sure the noble plant, translated first,
Advanced its head in Grecian gardens nurst.
The Grecians added verse; their tuneful tongue
Made nature first, and nature's God their song.
Nor stopt translation here; for conquering Rome,
With Grecian spoils, brought Grecian numbers home;
Enriched by those Athenian muses more,
Than all the vanquished world could yield before.
Till barbarous nations, and more barbarous times,
Debased the majesty of verse to rhymes;
Those rude at first; a kind of hobbling prose,
That limped along, and tinkled in the close.
But Italy, reviving from the trance
Of Vandal, Goth, and Monkish ignorance,
With pauses, cadence, and well-vowel'd words,
And all the graces a good ear affords,
Made rhyme an art, and Dante's polished page
Restored a silver, not a golden age.
Then Petrarch followed, and in him we see, }
What rhyme improved in all its height can be; }
At best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity. }
The French pursued their steps; and Britain, last,
In manly sweetness all the rest surpassed.
The wit of Greece, the gravity of Rome,
Appear exalted in the British loom:
The Muses' empire is restored again,
In Charles his reign, and by Roscommon's pen.
Yet modestly he does his work survey,
And calls a finished poem an essay;
For all the needful rules are scattered here; }
Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe; }
So well is art disguised, for nature to appear. }
Nor need those rules to give translation light;
His own example is a flame so bright,
That he, who but arrives to copy well,
Unguided will advance, unknowing will excel.
Scarce his own Horace could such rules ordain,
Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain.
How much in him may rising Ireland boast,
How much in gaining him has Britain lost!
Their island in revenge has ours reclaimed;
The more instructed we, the more we still are shamed.
'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow,
Derived from British channels long ago,[28]
That here his conquering ancestors were nurst,
And Ireland but translated England first:
By this reprizal we regain our right,
Else must the two contending nations fight;
A nobler quarrel for his native earth,
Than what divided Greece for Homer's birth.
To what perfection will our tongue arrive,
How will invention and translation thrive,
When authors nobly born will bear their part,
And not disdain the inglorious praise of art!
Great generals thus, descending from command,
With their own toil provoke the soldier's hand.
How will sweet Ovid's ghost be pleased to hear
His fame augmented by an English peer;[29]
How he embellishes his Helen's loves,
Outdoes his softness, and his sense improves?
When these translate, and teach translators too,
Nor firstling kid, nor any vulgar vow,
Should at Apollo's grateful altar stand: }
Roscommon writes; to that auspicious hand, }
Muse, feed the bull that spurns the yellow sand. }
Roscommon, whom both court and camps commend,
True to his prince, and faithful to his friend;
Roscommon, first in fields of honour known, }
First in the peaceful triumphs of the gown; }
Who both Minervas justly makes his own. }
Now let the few beloved by Jove, and they
Whom infused Titan formed of better clay,
On equal terms with ancient wit engage,
Nor mighty Homer fear, nor sacred Virgil's page:
Our English palace opens wide in state,
And without stooping they may pass the gate.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 28: Roscommon, it must be remembered, was born in Ireland,
where his property also was situated. But the Dillons were of English
extraction.]
[Footnote 29: In this verse, which savours of the bathos, our author
passes from Roscommon to Mulgrave; another "author nobly born," who
about this time had engaged with Dryden and others in the version of
Ovid's Epistles, published in 1680. The Epistle of Helen to Paris,
alluded to in the lines which follow, was jointly translated by Mulgrave
and Dryden, although the poet politely ascribes the whole merit to his
noble co-adjutor. See Vol. XII. p. 26.]
EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.
TO THE
DUCHESS OF YORK,
ON HER
RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, IN THE YEAR 1682.
These smooth and elegant lines are addressed to Mary of Este, second
wife of James Duke of York, and afterwards his queen. She was at this
time in all the splendour of beauty; tall, and admirably formed in her
person; dignified and graceful in her deportment, her complexion very
fair, and her hair and eye-brows of the purest black. Her personal
charms fully merited the encomiastic strains of the following epistle.
The Duchess accompanied her husband to Scotland, where he was sent into
a kind of honorary banishment, during the dependence of the Bill of
Exclusion. Upon the dissolution of the Oxford parliament, the Duke
visited the court in triumph; and after two months stay, returned to
Scotland, and in his voyage suffered the misfortune of shipwreck,
elsewhere mentioned particularly.[30] Having settled the affairs of
Scotland, he returned with his family to England; whence he had been
virtually banished for three years. His return was hailed by the poets
of the royal party with unbounded congratulation. It is celebrated by
Tate, in the Second Part of "Absalom and Achitophel;"[31] and by our
author, in a prologue spoken before the Duke and Duchess.[32] But, not
contented with that expression of zeal, Dryden paid the following
additional tribute upon the same occasion.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 30: Vol. IX. p. 402.]
[Footnote 31: Vol. IX. p. 344.]
[Footnote 32: Vol. X. p. 366. Otway furnished an epilogue on the same
night.]
EPISTLE THE SEVENTH.
When factious rage to cruel exile drove
The queen of beauty, and the court of love,
The Muses drooped, with their forsaken arts,
And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts;
Our fruitful plains to wilds and desarts turned,
Like Eden's face, when banished man it mourned.
Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
The great supporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after beauty stay, }
But wandered northward to the verge of day, }
As if the sun and he had lost their way. }
But now the illustrious nymph, returned again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wondering Nereids, though they raised no storm,
Foreslowed her passage, to behold her form:
Some cried, A Venus; some, A Thetis past;
But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.
Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;
And Envy did but look on her, and died.
Whate'er we suffered from our sullen fate,
Her sight is purchased at an easy rate.
Three gloomy years against this day were set;
But this one mighty sum has cleared the debt:
Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom,
The famine past, the plenty still to come.
For her, the weeping heavens become serene;
For her, the ground is clad in cheerful green;
For her, the nightingales are taught to sing,
And Nature has for her delayed the spring.
The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays, }
And Love restored his ancient realm surveys, }
Recals our beauties, and revives our plays, }
His waste dominions peoples once again,
And from her presence dates his second reign.
But awful charms on her fair forehead sit,
Dispensing what she never will admit;
Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam,
The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
Distempered zeal, sedition, cankered hate,
No more shall vex the church, and tear the state;
No more shall faction civil discords move,
Or only discords of too tender love:
Discord, like that of music's various parts;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
Who best shall love the duke, and serve the king.
EPISTLE THE EIGHTH.
TO MY FRIEND,
MR J. NORTHLEIGH,
AUTHOR OF
THE PARALLEL;
ON HIS
TRIUMPH OF THE BRITISH MONARCHY.
These verses have been recovered by Mr Malone, and are transferred, from
his life of Dryden, into the present collection of his works. John
Northleigh was by profession a student of law, though he afterwards
became a physician; and was in politics a keen Tory. He wrote "The
Parallel, or the new specious Association, an old rebellious Covenant,
closing with a disparity between a true Patriot and a factious
Associator." London, 1682, folio. This work was anonymous; but attracted
so much applause among the High-churchmen, that, according to Wood, Dr
Lawrence Womack called the author "an excellent person, whose name his
own modesty, or prudence, as well as the iniquity of the times, keeps
from us."
Proceeding in the same track of politics, Northleigh published two
pamphlets on the side of the Tories, in the dispute between the
petitioners and abhorrers; and finally produced, "The Triumph of our
Monarchy, over the Plots and Principles of our Rebels and Republicans,
being remarks on their most eminent Libels. London, 1685." This last
publication called forth the following lines from our author.
Northleigh was the son of a Hamburgh merchant, and born in that city. He
became a student in Exeter College, in 1674, aged 17 years; and was, it
appears, studying law in the Inner Temple in 1685, when his book was
published. He was then, consequently, about 28 years old; so that his
genius was not peculiarly premature, notwithstanding our author's
compliment. He afterwards took a medical degree at Cambridge, and
practised physic at Exeter.--WOOD, _Athenæ Oxon_. Vol. II. p. 962.
These verses, like the address to Hoddesdon, are ranked among the
Epistles, because Dryden gave that title to other recommendatory verses
of the same nature.
EPISTLE THE EIGHTH.
So Joseph, yet a youth, expounded well }
The boding dream, and did the event foretell; }
Judged by the past, and drew the Parallel. }
Thus early Solomon the truth explored,
The right awarded, and the babe restored.
Thus Daniel, ere to prophecy he grew, }
The perjured Presbyters did first subdue, }
And freed Susanna from the canting crew. }
Well may our monarchy triumphant stand,
While warlike James protects both sea and land;
And, under covert of his seven-fold shield,
Thou send'st thy shafts to scour the distant field.
By law thy powerful pen has set us free;
Thou studiest that, and that may study thee.
EPISTLE THE NINTH.
A
LETTER
TO
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.
Sir George Etherege, as a lively and witty companion, a smooth
sonnetteer, and an excellent writer of comedy, was in high reputation in
the seventeenth century. He lived on terms of intimacy with the men of
genius, and with those of rank, at the court of Charles the Second, and
appears to have been particularly acquainted with Dryden. Etherege
enjoyed in a particular manner the favour of Queen Mary of Este, through
whose influence he was sent envoy to Hamburgh, and afterwards became
resident minister at Ratisbon. In this situation, he did not cease to
interest himself in the progress of English literature; and we have
several of his letters, both in prose and verse, written with great wit
and vivacity, to the Duke of Buckingham, and other persons of wit and
honour at the court of London. Among others, he wrote an epistle in
verse to the Earl of Middleton, who engaged Dryden to return the
following answer to it. As Sir George's verses are lively and pleasing,
I have prefixed them to Dryden's epistle. Both pieces, with a second
letter from Etherege to Middleton, appeared in Dryden's Miscellanies.
Our poet's epistle to Sir George Etherege affords an example how easily
Dryden could adapt his poetry to the style which the moment required;
since, although this is the only instance in which he has used the
verse of eight syllables, it flows as easily from his pen as if he had
never written in another measure. This is the more remarkable, as, in
the "Essay on Satire," Dryden speaks very contemptuously of the eight
syllable, or Hudibrastic measure, and the ornaments proper to it, as a
little instrument, unworthy the use of a great master.[33] Here,
however, he happily retorts upon the witty knight, with his own weapons
of gallant and courtly ridicule, and acquits himself, as well in the
light arms of a polite and fashionable courtier, as when he wields the
trenchant brand of his own keen satire.
Our author had formerly favoured Sir George Etherege with an excellent
epilogue to his popular play, called "The Man of Mode," acted in 1676,
and he occasionally speaks of him in his writings with great respect.
The date of this epistle is not easily ascertained. From a letter of
Etherege to the Duke of Buckingham, it appears, that Sir George was at
Ratisbon when Dryden was engaged in his controversial poetry;[34] but
whether that letter be previous or subsequent to the epistle to the Earl
of Middleton, seems uncertain.
Considering the high reputation which Sir George Etherege enjoyed, and
the figure which he made as a courtier and a man of letters, it is
humbling to add, that we have no accurate information concerning the
time or manner of his death. It seems certain, that he never returned
from the Continent; but it is dubious, whether, according to one report,
he followed the fortunes of King James, and resided with him at the
court of St Germains till his death, or whether, as others have said,
that event was occasioned by his falling down the stairs of his own
house at Ratisbon, when, after drinking freely with a large company, he
was attempting to do the honours of their retreat. From the date of the
letter to the Duke of Buckingham, 21st October, 1689, it is plain he was
then at Ratisbon; and it is somewhat singular, that he appears to have
retained his official situation of Resident, though nearly twelve months
had elapsed since the Revolution. This seems to give countenance to the
latter report of his having died at Ratisbon. The date of that event was
probably about 1694.
[Footnote 33: Vol. XIII. p. 108.]
[Footnote 34: "They tell me my old acquaintance, Mr Dryden, has left off
the theatre, and wholly applies himself to the study of the
controversies between the two churches. Pray heaven, this strange
alteration in him portends nothing disastrous to the state; but I have
all along observed, that poets do religion as little service by drawing
their pens for it, as the divines do poetry, by pretending to
versification." This letter is dated 21st October, 1689.]
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE,
TO THE
EARL OF MIDDLETON.[35]
Since love and verse, as well as wine,
Are brisker where the sun does shine,
'Tis something to lose two degrees,
Now age itself begins to freeze:
Yet this I patiently could bear, }
If the rough Danube's beauties were }
But only two degrees less fair }
Than the bright nymphs of gentle Thames,
Who warm me hither with their beams:
Such power they have, they can dispense
Five hundred miles their influence.
But hunger forces men to eat,
Though no temptation's in the meat.
How would the ogling sparks despise
The darling damsel of my eyes,
Should they behold her at a play,
As she's tricked up on holiday,
When the whole family combine,
For public pride, to make her shine!
Her locks, which long before lay matted,
Are on this day combed out and plaited;
A diamond bodkin in each tress,
The badges of her nobleness;
For every stone, as well as she,
Can boast an ancient pedigree.
These formed the jewel erst did grace
The cap of the first Grave[36] o' the race,
Preferred by Graffin[37] Marian
To adorn the handle of her fan;
And, as by old record appears,
Worn since in Kunigunda's years,
Now sparkling in the froein's hair;[38] }
No rocket breaking in the air }
Can with her starry head compare. }
Such ropes of pearl her arms encumber,
She scarce can deal the cards at omber;
So many rings each finger freight,
They tremble with the mighty weight.
The like in England ne'er was seen,
Since Holbein drew Hal[39] and his queen:
But after these fantastic flights,
The lustre's meaner than the lights.
The thing that bears this glittering pomp
Is but a tawdry ill-bred romp,
Whose brawny limbs and martial face
Proclaim her of the Gothic race,
More than the mangled pageantry
Of all the father's heraldry.
But there's another sort of creatures,
Whose ruddy look and grotesque features
Are so much out of nature's way,
You'd think them stamped on other clay,
No lawful daughters of old Adam.
'Mongst these behold a city madam,
With arms in mittins, head in muff,
A dapper cloak, and reverend ruff:
No farce so pleasant as this maukin,
And the soft sound of High-Dutch talking.
Here, unattended by the Graces,
The queen of love in a sad case is.
Nature, her active minister,
Neglects affairs, and will not stir;
Thinks it not worth the while to please,
But when she does it for her ease.
Even I, her most devout adorer,
With wandering thoughts appear before her,
And when I'm making an oblation, }
Am fain to spur imagination }
With some sham London inclination: }
The bow is bent at German dame,
The arrow flies at English game.
Kindness, that can indifference warm,
And blow that calm into a storm,
Has in the very tenderest hour
Over my gentleness a power;
True to my country-women's charms,
When kissed and pressed in foreign arms.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 35: Charles, 2d Earl of Middleton, a man of some literary
accomplishment. He had been Envoy Extraordinary to the Emperor of
Germany, and was now one of the secretaries of state for Scotland.]
[Footnote 36: Graf, or Count.]
[Footnote 37: Countess.]
[Footnote 38: _Quere_, Did Pope think of this passage in his famous
account of Belinda's bodkin?]
[Footnote 39: Henry VIII.]
EPISTLE THE NINTH.
To you, who live in chill degree,
As map informs, of fifty-three,[40]
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one,
Methinks all climes should be alike,
From tropic even to pole artique;
Since you have such a constitution
As no where suffers diminution.
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love affairs of state;
And both to wives and husbands show
The vigour of a plenipo.
Like mighty missioner you come
_Ad Partes Infidelium_.
A work of wonderous merit sure,
So far to go, so much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where sound of Cupid never came.
Less had you done, had you been sent
As far as Drake or Pinto went,
For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,
Or even for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity, }
Where love-sick ladies helpless lie, }
Chapt, and, for want of liquor, dry. }
But you have made your zeal appear
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth's so dull,
That is not of your labours full?
Triptolemus (so sung the Nine)
Strewed plenty from his cart divine;
But spite of all these fable-makers,
He never sowed on Almain acres.
No, that was left by fate's decree
To be performed and sung by thee.
Thou break'st through forms with as much ease
As the French king through articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent, }
In waging weighty compliment, }
With such as monarchs represent. }
They, whom such vast fatigues attend,
Want some soft minutes to unbend,
To shew the world that, now and then,
Great ministers are mortal men.
Then Rhenish rummers walk the round;
In bumpers every king is crowned;
Besides three holy mitred Hectors,[41]
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is sunk,
That pays to make his envoy drunk.
These Dutch delights, I mentioned last,
Suit not, I know, your English taste:
For wine to leave a whore or play,
Was ne'er your Excellency's way.[42]
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your Excellence;
For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping,
His Excellence for all--but sleeping.
Now if you tope in form, and treat, }
'Tis the sour sauce to the sweet meat, }
The fine you pay for being great. }
Nay, here's a harder imposition,
Which is indeed the court's petition,
That, setting worldly pomp aside,
Which poet has at font denied,
You would be pleased in humble way
To write a trifle called a Play.
This truly is a degradation, }
But would oblige the crown and nation }
Next to your wise negotiation. }
If you pretend, as well you may, }
Your high degree, your friends will say, }
The duke St Aignon made a play. }
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,
His grace of Bucks has made a farce,
And you, whose comic wit is terse all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began,
But scribble faster if you can;
For yet no George, to our discerning,
Has writ without a ten years warning.[43]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 40: The map does not convey any such information. Ratisbon
lies in latitude 48° 58´ N. Dryden alludes to the commencement of
Etherege's epistle to Middleton, in which he mentions having gone three
degrees northward, London being 41° 15´ N. Dryden transfers Ratisbon
into a high latitude, merely to suit the rhyme, and produce the
antithesis of 53 degrees latitude, to 52 years of age.]
[Footnote 41: The three ecclesiastical Electors WERE, the Electors of
Treves, Cologne, and Mentz. At this time the Diet of the empire was
sitting at Ratisbon.]
[Footnote 42: Etherege has been pleased to confirm our author's opinion
of the German jollity, and his own inclination to softer pleasures, by
the following passage of a letter to the Duke of Buckingham.
"I find that to this day, they (_i.e._ the Germans) make good the
observation that Tacitus made of their ancestors; I mean, that their
affairs (let them be never so serious and pressing) never put a stop to
good eating and drinking, and that they debate their weightiest
negociations over their cups.
"'Tis true, they carry this humour by much too far for one of my
complexion; for which reason I decline appearing among them, but when my
master's concerns make it necessary for me to come to their assemblies:
They are, indeed, a free-hearted open sort of gentlemen that compose the
Diet, without reserve, affectation, and artifice; but they are such
unmerciful plyers of the bottle, so wholly given up to what our sots
call good-fellowship, that 'tis as great a constraint upon my nature to
sit out a night's entertainment with them, as it would be to hear half a
score long-winded Presbyterian divines cant successively one after
another.
"To unbosom myself frankly and freely to your grace, I always looked
upon drunkenness to be an unpardonable crime in a young fellow, who,
without any of these foreign helps, has fire enough in his veins to
enable him to do justice to Cælia whenever she demands a tribute from
him. In a middle-aged man, I consider the bottle only as subservient to
the nobler pleasures of love; and he that would suffer himself to be so
far infatuated by it, as to neglect the pursuit of a more agreeable
game, I think deserves no quarter from the ladies: In old age, indeed,
when it is convenient very often to forget and even steal from
ourselves, I am of opinion, that a little drunkenness, discreetly used,
may as well contribute to our health of body as tranquillity of soul.
"Thus I have given your grace a short system of my morals and belief in
these affairs. But the gentlemen of this country go upon a quite
different scheme of pleasure; the best furniture of their parlours,
instead of innocent china, are tall overgrown rummers; and they take
more care to enlarge their cellars, than their patrimonial estates. In
short, drinking is the hereditary sin of this country; and that hero of
a deputy here, that can demolish, at one sitting, the rest of his
brother envoys, is mentioned with as much applause as the Duke of Lorain
for his noble exploits against the Turks, and may claim a statue,
erected at the public expence, in any town in Germany.
"Judge, then, my lord, whether a person of my sober principles, and one
that only uses wine (as the wiser sort of Roman Catholics do images,) to
raise up my imagination to something more exalted, and not to terminate
my worship upon it, must not be reduced to very mortifying circumstances
in this place; where I cannot pretend to enjoy conversation, without
practising that vice that directly ruins it."]
[Footnote 43: This is the only mention that our author makes of the
"Rehearsal" in poetry: In prose he twice notices that satirical farce
with some contempt. The length of time which the Duke spent upon it, or
at least which elapsed between the first concoction and the
representation, is mentioned by Duke in his character of Villerius:
But with play-houses, wars, immortal wars,
He waged, and ten years rage produced a farce.
As many rolling years he did employ, }
And hands almost as many, to destroy }
Heroic rhyme, as Greece to ruin Troy. }
Once more, says fame, for battle he prepares,
And threatens rhymers with a second farce;
But if as long for this as that we stay,
He'll finish Cliveden sooner than his play.
The last line alludes to the magnificent structure at Cliveden, which
Buckingham planned, but never completed. Another satirist has the same
idea:
I come to his farce, which must needs well be done, }
For Troy was no longer before it was won, }
Since 'tis more than ten years since this farce was begun. }
]
EPISTLE THE TENTH.
TO
MR SOUTHERNE,
ON HIS COMEDY
CALLED
THE WIVES' EXCUSE,
ACTED IN 1692.
SOUTHERNE,--well known to the present age as a tragic writer, for his
Isabella has been ranked among the first-rate parts of our inimitable
Siddons,--was also distinguished by his contemporaries as a successful
candidate for the honours of the comic muse. Two of his comedies, "The
Mother in Fashion," and "Sir Anthony Love," had been represented with
success, when, in 1692, the "Wives' Excuse, or Cuckolds make
Themselves," was brought forward. The tone of that piece approaches what
we now call genteel comedy: but, whether owing to the flatness into
which such plays are apt to slide, for want of the _vis comica_ which
enlivens the more animated, though coarser, effusions of the lower
comedy, or to some strokes of satire directed against music meetings,
and other places of fashionable resort, "The Wives' Excuse" was
unfortunate in the representation. The author, in the dedication of the
printed play,[44] has hinted at the latter cause as that of his defeat;
and vindicates himself from the idea of reflecting upon music meetings,
or any other resort of the people of fashion, by urging, that although a
_billet doux_ is represented as being there delivered, "such a thing has
been done before now in a church, without the place being thought the
worse of." But Southerne consoles himself for the disapprobation of the
audience with the favour of Dryden, who, says he, "speaking of this
play, has publicly said, the town was kind to 'Sir Anthony Love;' I
needed them only to be just to this." And, after mentioning that Dryden
had intrusted to him, upon the credit of this play, the task of
completing "Cleomenes,"[45] he triumphantly adds,--"If modesty be
sometimes a weakness, what I say can hardly be a crime: in a fair
English trial, both parties are allowed to be heard; and without this
vanity of mentioning Mr Dryden, I had lost the best evidence of my
cause." Dryden, not satisfied with a verbal exertion of his patronage,
consoled his friend under his discomfiture, by addressing to him the
following Epistle, in which his failure is ascribed to the taste for
bustling intrigue, and for low and farcical humour.
It is not the Editor's business to trace Southerne's life, or poetical
career. He was born in the county of Dublin, in 1659; and produced, in
his twenty-third year, the tragedy of "The Loyal Brother," which Dryden
|
Wignell and Royall Tyler, Esq., were
originally responsible. Jonathan was the chief character in the piece,
which was almost a one-part play. Its representations were few.
This Jonathan is not to be confounded with another and a better Jonathan,
who figured in _The Forest Rose_, a domestic opera, by Samuel Woodworth,
music by John Davies, produced in 1825, when Tyler's Jonathan had been
dead and buried for many years. Woodworth's Jonathan was originally played
by Alexander Simpson, and later by Henry Placide. It was long a favorite
part of the gentleman known as "Yankee Hill."
The American Drama--such as it is--may be divided into several classes,
including the Indian Drama, and the plays of Frontier Life, which are
often identical; the Revolutionary and war plays; the Yankee, or character
plays, like _The Gilded Age_, or _The Old Homestead_; the plays of local
life and character, like _Mose_, or _Squatter Sovereignty_; and the
society plays, of which Mrs. Mowatt's _Fashion_, and Bronson Howard's
_Saratoga_ are fair examples. Of these the Indian drama, as aboriginal,
should receive, perhaps, the first attention here.
The earliest Indian play of which there is any record on the American
stage was from the pen of an Englishwoman, Anne Kemble (Mrs. Hatton), a
member of the great Kemble family, and a sister of John Kemble and of Mrs.
Siddons. It is described as an operatic spectacle, and was entitled
_Tammany_. Dedicated to, and brought out under the patronage of, the
Tammany Society, it was first presented at the John Street Theatre, New
York, on the 3d of March, 1794. Columbus and St. Tammany himself were
among the characters represented. The Indians who figured upon the stage
were not very favorably received by the braves of that day, a large party
of whom witnessed the initial performance of the piece; and _Tammany_ was
not a success, notwithstanding the power of the Kemble name, the good-will
of the sachems of the Society, and the additional attraction of the
stage-settings, which were the first attempts at anything like correct and
elaborate scenic effects in this country.
[Illustration: G. W. P. CUSTIS.]
At the Park Theatre, June 14, 1808, was presented the next Indian play of
any importance, and, as written by a native American, James N. Barker, of
Philadelphia, it should take precedence of _Tammany_, perhaps, in the
history of the Indian drama. It was entitled _The Indian Princess_, was
founded on the story of Pocahontas, and, like _Tammany_, was musical in
its character. It was printed in 1808 or 1809; the versification is smooth
and clear, the dialogue bright, and the plot well sustained throughout.
Pocahontas has ever been a favorite character in our Indian plays. George
Washington Parke Custis wrote a drama of that name, presented at the Park
Theatre, New York, December 28, 1830, Mrs. Barnes playing the titular
part. James Thorne, an English singer, who died a few years later, was
Captain John Smith; Thomas Placide was Lieutenant Percy; Peter Richings,
Powhatan; and Edmund Simpson, the manager of the Park for so many years,
played Master Rolf. Robert Dale Owen's _Pocahontas_ was produced at the
same house seven years later (February 8, 1838), with Miss Emma Wheatley
as Pocahontas; John H. Clarke, the father of Constantia Clarke, the
Olympic favorite in later years, as Powhatan; Peter Richings, an Indian
character, Maccomac; John A. Fisher, Hans Krabbins; his sister, Jane M.
Fisher (Mrs. Vernon), Ann; and Miss Charlotte Cushman, at that time
fond of appearing in male parts, Rolf. As these several versions of the
story of the Indian maiden are preserved to us, that of Mr. Owen is
decidedly the best in a literary point of view. It has not been seen upon
the stage in many years. The _Pocahontas_ of John Brougham cannot be
claimed as a purely American production, and it must be reserved for
future discussion and under a very different head.
[Illustration: EDWIN FORREST.]
Unquestionably, Mr. Forrest's great success with _Metamora_, a prize drama
for which he paid its author, John Augustus Stone, five hundred dollars--a
large sum of money for such an effort half a century ago--was the secret
of the remarkable run upon Indian plays from which theatre-goers
throughout the country suffered between the years 1830 and 1840. Forrest,
even at that early period in his career, was the recognized leader of the
American stage, the founder of a peculiar school of acting, with a host of
imitators and followers. Metamora was one of his strongest and most
popular parts; its great effect upon his admirers is still vividly
remembered, and, naturally, other actors sought like glory and profit in
similar roles.
_Metamora; or, The Last of the Wampanoags_, was produced for the first
time on any stage at the Park Theatre, New York, December 15, 1829. Mr.
Forrest, Peter Richings, Thomas Placide, John Povey, Thomas Barry, Mrs.
Hilson (Ellen Augusta Johnson), and Mrs. Sharpe were in the original cast.
As Metamora Mr. Forrest appeared many hundreds of nights, and in almost
every city of the American Union. Wemyss, at the time of the first
production of the play in Philadelphia (January 22, 1830), wrote of him
and of _Metamora_ as follows: "The anxiety to see him crowded the theatre
[Arch Street] on each night of the performance, adding to his reputation
as an actor as well as to his private fortune as a man. It is a very
indifferent play, devoid of interest; but the character of Metamora is
beautifully conceived, and will continue to attract so long as Mr. E.
Forrest is its representative. It was written for him, and will in all
probability die with him." Mr. Wemyss's prophecy was certainly fulfilled.
No one after Mr. Forrest's death, with the single exception of John
McCullough, and he but seldom, had the hardihood to risk his reputation in
a part so well known as one of the best performances of the greatest of
American actors; and Metamora and Mr. Forrest have passed away together.
[Illustration: JOHN McCULOUGH.]
_Metamora_ owed everything to the playing of Forrest; if it had fallen
into the hands of any other actor it would no doubt have been as
short-lived as the rest of the Indian dramas generally--a night or two,
or a week or two at most, and then oblivion. As a literary production it
was inferior to others of its class; not equal to _The Ancient Briton_,
for which Mr. Forrest is said to have paid the same author one thousand
dollars; or to _Fauntleroy_ or _Tancred_, dramas of Mr. Stone's, which met
with but indifferent success. John Augustus Stone's history is a very sad
one; in a fit of insanity he threw himself into the Schuykill, in the
summer of 1834, when barely thirty years of age; after life's fitful fever
sleeping quietly now under a neat monument containing the simple
inscription that it was "Erected to the Memory of the Author of _Metamora_
by his friend, Edwin Forrest." With all of his faults and failings, the
great tragedian was ever faithful to the men he called his friends.
The Indian of Fenimore Cooper is the father of the stage Indian; and both
have been described by Mr. Mark Twain as belonging to "an extinct tribe
which never existed." A full list of the Indian plays more or less
successful, known in other days and now quite forgotten, would be one of
the curiosities of American dramatic literature. A few of them are here
preserved:
_Sassacus; or, The Indian Wife_, said to have been written by William
Wheatley, then a leading young man at the Park Theatre, New York, where
_Sassacus_ was produced on the 8th of July, 1836, Wheatley playing an
Indian part, Pokota; his sister, Miss Emma Wheatley, then at the height of
her popularity, playing Unca, and John R. Scott _Sassacus_. This latter
gentleman, as a "red man of the woods," was always a great favorite with
the gallery, and he created the titular roles in _Kairrissah_, _Oroloosa_,
_Outalassie_, and other aboriginal dramas with decided credit to himself.
In the course of a few years, while the stage-Indian was still the
fashion, were seen in different American theatres _The Pawnee Chief_;
_Onylda; or, The Pequot Maid_; _Ontiata; or, The Indian Heroine_;
_Osceola_; _Oroonoka_; _Tuscalomba_; _Carabasset_; _Hiawatha_;
_Narramattah_; _Miautoumah_; _Outalissi_; _Wacousta_; _Tutoona_;
_Yemassie_; _Wissahickon_; _Lamorah_; _The Wigwam_; _The Manhattoes_;
_Eagle Eye_; and many more, not one of which lives to tell its own tale
to-day.
The reaction against the Indian drama began to become apparent as early as
1846, when James Rees, a dramatist, author of _Charlotte Temple_, _The
Invisible Man_, _Washington at Valley Forge_, but of no Indian plays,
wrote that the Indian drama, in his opinion, "had of late become a
_perfect nuisance_," the italics being his own.
SCENE II.
THE REVOLUTIONARY AND WAR DRAMA.
"List him discourse of War, and you shall hear
A fearful battle rendered you in music."
_Henry V._, Act i. Sc. 1.
The first of the purely Revolutionary plays presented in New York was,
probably, _Bunker Hill; or, the Death of General Warren_, and the work of
an Irishman, John D. Burke. It was played at the John Street Theatre in
1797; and it was followed the next year by William Dunlap's _André_, at
the Park. Mr. Brander Matthews, in his introduction to a reprint of
_André_, published by "The Dunlap Society," for private circulation among
its members, enumerates a number of plays written shortly after the
Revolution upon the subject of the capture and death of the British spy,
many of which, however, were never put upon the stage. André had been dead
less than twenty years when Dunlap's _André_ was first produced, in 1798,
and Arnold was still living; and, curiously enough, _The Glory of
Columbia_, also by Dunlap, in which Arnold and André both figured, was
played at the old South Street Theatre, Philadelphia, in 1807, with scenes
painted by André himself, who had superintended amateur theatricals at
that house, and had played upon that very stage.
After _Bunker Hill_ and _André_ came at different periods in New York _The
Battle of Lake Erie_; _The Battle of Eutaw Springs_; _A Tale of
Lexington_; _The Siege of Boston_; _The Siege of Yorktown_; _The
Seventy-Sixer_; _The Soldier of '76_; _Marion; or, The Hero of Lake
George_; _Washington at Valley Forge_; and many more of the same
stamp--all of which were popular enough during the first half-century of
our history, but during the last half they have entirely disappeared.
[Illustration: MAJOR ANDRÉ.--From a pen-and-ink sketch by himself.]
A play of Revolutionary times which deserves more than passing notice here
was _Love in '76_, by Oliver B. Bunce, produced at Laura Keene's Theatre
in New York in September, 1857; Miss Keene playing Rose Elsworth, the
heroine; Tom Johnstone Apollo Metcalf, a Yankee school-teacher--a part
that suited his eccentric comedy genius to perfection; and J. G. Burnett
Colonel Cleveland of the British Army, a wicked old soldier, in love with
Rose, and completely foiled by the other two in the last act. _Love in
'76_ was unique in its way, being the only "parlor play" of the
Revolution, the only play of that period which is entirely social in
its character; and a charming contrast it was to its blood-and-thunder
associates on that account--a pretty, healthy little story of woman's love
and woman's devotion in the times that tried men's hearts as well as
souls. It was not put upon the stage with the care it deserved, and was
too pure in tone to suit a public who craved burlesque and extravaganza.
It has not been played in some years. Mr. Bunce was the author of other
plays, notably the _Morning of Life_, written for the Denin Sisters, then
clever little girls, which they produced at the Chatham Theatre, New York,
in the summer of 1848. George Jordan and John Winans, the latter a very
popular low-comedian on the east side of the town, were in the cast. At
the same house, two years later, was played _Marco Bozzaris_, a melodrama
in blank verse, with very effective scenes and situations, written by Mr.
Bunce, and founded not on Halleck's poem, but on the story of Bozzaris as
related in the histories. James W. Wallack, Jr. (then known as "Young
Wallack"), was the hero; Susan Denin was his martyred son; John Gilbert
was the villain of the piece; and Mrs. Wallack the hero's wife. _Marco
Bozzaris_ was very popular, and was not withdrawn until the end of the
Bowery season.
But to return to the drama particularly devoted to war. _The Battle of
Tippecanoe_ related to the Indian wars, as _The Battle of New Orleans_ was
founded on the War of 1812, and _The Battle of Mexico_ on our Mexican
difficulties some years later. The contemporaneous literature of the stage
inspired by the War of the Rebellion was not extensive or worthy of
particular notice. It was confined generally to productions like _The
Federal Spy; or, Pauline of the Potomac_, at the New Bowery Theatre, New
York, and _The Union Prisoners; or, The Patriot's Daughter_, at Barnum's
Museum. During the struggle for national existence war on both sides of
the Potomac was too serious a business, and too near home, to attract
people to its mimic representations on the stage, and it was not until
_Held by the Enemy_ and _Shenandoah_ were produced, a quarter of a century
after the establishment of peace, that American play-goers began to find
any pleasure in theatrical representations of a subject which had
previously been so full of unpleasantness. These later war dramas,
however, are so much superior in plot, dialogue, and construction to any
of the plays founded upon our earlier wars, so far as these earlier plays
have come down to us, that they may encourage the optimist in theatrical
novelties to believe that there is some hope for the future of that branch
of dramatic literature at least.
SCENE III.
THE FRONTIER DRAMA.
"Here in the skirts of the forest."
_As You Like It_, Act iii. Sc. 2.
The drama of frontier life in this country may be described as the Indian
drama which is not all Indian; and even this variety of stage play is fast
disappearing with the scalp-hunter, and with the Indian himself, going
farther and farther to the westward every year. It may be said to have
been inaugurated by James K. Paulding, a native of the State of New York,
who wrote the part of Colonel Nimrod Wildfire, in _The Lion of the West_,
for J. H. Hackett, in 1831. Wildfire, afterwards put into a drama called
_The Kentuckian_, by Bayle Bernard, wore buckskin clothes, deer-skin
shoes, and a coon-skin hat; and he had many contemporary imitators, who
copied his dress, his speech, and his gait, and stalked through the deep
tangled wild woods of east-side stages for many years; to the delight of
city-bred pits and galleries, who were perfectly assured that _Kit, the
Arkansas Traveller_--and one of the best of his class--was the real thing,
until they saw Buffalo Bill with actual cowboys and _bona fide_ Indians in
his train, and lost all further interest in _The Scouts of the Prairies_,
or in _Nick of the Woods_, which hitherto had filled their idea of a life
on the plains.
[Illustration: J. H. HACKETT.]
Only two modern plays of this character are worthy of serious attention
here--Augustin Daly's _Horizon_ and the _Davy Crockett_ of Frank E.
Murdoch. _Horizon_, one of Mr. Daly's earliest works, was produced at the
Olympic Theatre, March 22, 1871, and ran for two months. In the
advertisements it was called "a totally original drama, in five acts,
illustrative of a significant phase of New York society, and embodying the
varied scenes peculiar to American frontier life of the present day." It
was certainly an American play. In no other part of the world are its
characters and its incidents to be met with. Complications of plot and
scenery and certain surprises in the action were evidently aimed at by the
author rather than literary excellence. A panorama of a Western river and
a night surprise of an Indian band upon a company of United States troops
were well managed and very effective. The play was suggestive of Bret
Harte's sketches and of dime novels, with its gambler, its Heathen Chinee,
its roughs of "Rogues' Rest" its vigilance committee, its abandoned
wife, and its prairie princess. The Indian element did not predominate in
_Horizon_, and was not offensive. The part of Wannamucka, the
semi-civilized redskin, very well played by Charles Wheatleigh, was quite
an original conception of the traditional untutored savage; he was wild,
romantic, treacherous, but with a touch of dry humor about him that made
him attractive in the drama, if not according to the nature of his kind.
Panther Loder might have stepped out of the story of _The Outcasts of
Poker Flat_--one of those cool, desperate, utterly depraved, but
gentlemanly rascals whom Mr. Harte has painted so graphically, and whom
John K. Mortimer could represent so perfectly upon the stage. Mortimer,
during his long career, never did more artistic work than in this _rôle_.
The stars in _Horizon_ whose names on the bills appeared in the largest
type were Miss Agnes Ethel, the White Flower of the Plains, and George L.
Fox. The lady was gentle, charming, and very pretty in a part evidently
written to fit her; not so great as in _Frou Frou_, in which she made her
first hit, or as Agnes, which was to follow; but it was a pleasant,
creditable performance throughout. Poor Fox, as Sundown Bowse, the
Territorial Congressman, furnished the comic element in the piece; he was
humorous and not impossible--the first of the Bardwell Slotes and Colonel
Sellerses and Silas K. Woolcotts who are now the accepted stage-Yankees,
and who furnish most of the amusement in the modern American drama. Mr.
Fox has not been greatly surpassed by any of his successors in this line.
Miss Ada Harland as his daughter, Miss Lulu Prior as the royal Indian
maiden, Mrs. Yeamans as the Widow Mullins, and little Jennie Yeamans as
the captured pappoose all added to the popularity of the play. Taken as a
whole, _Horizon_ is the best native production of its kind seen here in
many years, with the single exception of _Davy Crockett_.
Mr. Frank Murdoch called his _Davy Crockett_ a "backwoods idyl." It is
almost the best American play ever written. A pure sylvan love-story, told
in a healthful, dramatic way, it is a poem in four acts; not perfect in
form, open to criticism, with faults of construction, failings of plot,
slight improbabilities, sensational situations, and literary shortcomings,
but so simple and so touching and so pure that it is worthy to rank with
any of the creations of the modern stage in any language. The character of
Davy Crockett, the central figure, is beautifully and artistically drawn:
a strong, brave young hunter of the Far West; bold but unassuming; gentle
but with a strong will; skilled in woodcraft but wholly ignorant of the
ways of the civilized world he had never seen; capable of great love and
of great sacrifices for his love's sake; shy, sensitive, and proud; unable
to read or to write; utterly unconscious of his own physical beauty and of
his own heroism; faithful, honest, truthful--in short, a natural
gentleman. The story is hardly a new one. Davy seems to be the son of the
famous Davy Crockett whose reputation was so great that his very name
became a terror to the 'coons of the wild woods, and who left to his
children and to posterity the wholesome advice that it is only safe to go
ahead when one is sure one is right in going. On this motto the Davy
Crockett of the play always acts. He is in love with a young lady who is
his superior in station and education. Of his admiration he is not
ashamed, but in his simple, honest modesty he never dreams of winning the
belle of the county, or that there is anything in him that can attract a
refined woman. It is his good fortune to save her life from Indians and
from wolves at some risk of his own scalp, and with some damage to his own
person. In a forest hut, while she nurses his wounds, she recites to him
the story of Young Lochinvar, upholding the course of the borderer of
other lands and other days, so faithful in love, so dauntless in war,
telling of her own approaching marriage to a laggard in love and a
dastard in battle, into which her father would force her. On this hint he
speaks, sure he is right at last, and going ahead, like the young hero in
Marmion, to win this old man's daughter. He carries her away from the arms
of the man she hates; one touch of her hand and one word in her ear is
enough; through all the wide border his steed is the best; there is racing
and chasing through Cannobie Lee, behind the footlights and in the wings,
but Lochinvar Crockett wins his bride, the curtain falls on proud gallant
and happy maiden, and the band plays "Home, Sweet Home."
All this, of course, is the old, old story so often told on the stage
before, and to last forever; but Mr. Murdoch seems to have told it better
than any of his fellow-countrymen.
There is no doubt, however, that _Davy Crockett_, like _Metamora_, owes
much of its success to the actor who plays its titular part. Mr. Frank
Mayo's performance of this backwoods hero is a gem in its way. He is quiet
and subdued, he looks and walks and talks the trapper to the life, never
overacts, and never forgets the character he represents. He first played
_Davy Crockett_ in Rochester in November, 1873, producing it in New York
at Niblo's Garden on the 9th of March, 1874, when he had the support of
Miss Rosa Rand as Eleanor Vaughn, the heroine who looked down to blush
and who looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye,
and who made in the part a very favorable impression. The play has never
been properly appreciated by metropolitan audiences. Free from tomahawking
and gun-firing, it does not attract the lovers of the sensational; utterly
devoid of emotional and harrowing elements, it does not appeal to the
admirers of the morbid on the stage; and, giving no scope for richness of
toilet, it has no charms for the habitual attendants upon matinée
entertainments.
[Illustration: Frank Mayo, as "Davy Crockett."]
Its reception by the press was not cordial or kindly, and the severe
things written about it had, it is said, such an effect upon its sensitive
author that he literally died of criticism in Philadelphia, November 13,
1872. Frank H. Murdoch was a nephew of James E. Murdoch, the old
tragedian, and was himself an actor of some promise. His single play was
of so much promise that if there were an American Academy to crown such
productions it might have won for him at least one leaf of the laurel.
SCENE IV.
THE STAGE AMERICAN IN THE CHARACTER PLAY.
"What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here?"
_A Midsummer-Night's Dream_, Act iii. Sc. 1.
The typical and accepted American of the stage, the most familiar figure
in our dramatic literature, is a Jonathan, an Asa Trenchard, a Rip Van
Winkle, a Solon Shingle, a Bardwell Slote, a Mulberry Sellers, and a
Joshua Whitcomb; and even he does not always figure in the American play
as it is here defined.
[Illustration: WILLIAM J. FLORENCE AS BARDWELL SLOTE.]
Jonathan, of whom something has already been said, is now extinct and
defunct. Asa Trenchard is the creation of an Englishman (Tom Taylor),
brought to perfection by the genius of Mr. Jefferson. Rip Van Winkle, as
has been said before, is a Dutchman taken from the pages of Irving's
familiar tale, and so accentuated by the genius of this same Jefferson in
the present generation, that the fact that he had distinguished
predecessors in the same character, but in other dramatizations of the
story, is almost forgotten now. Hackett was the original Rip in 1830.
Of his performance Sol Smith wrote then: "I should despair of finding a
man or a woman in an audience of five hundred who could hear Hackett's
utterance of five words in the second act, 'But she vas mine vrow,'
without experiencing some moisture in the eyes." The second Rip Van Winkle
was Charles Burke, a half-brother of Mr. Jefferson who considers Burke's
the best Rip Van Winkle of the trio. He was the author of his own version
of the play. Concerning his "_Are we so soon forgot?_" L. Clarke Davis
quotes John S. Clarke as saying: "It fell upon the senses like the
culmination of all mortal despair, and the actor's figure, as the low
sweet tones died away, symbolized more the ruin of a representative of a
race than the sufferings of an individual. His awful loss and loneliness
seemed to clothe him with a supernatural dignity and grandeur which
commanded the sympathy and awe of his audience." Mr. Clarke adds that in
supporting Mr. Burke in this part night after night, and while perfectly
aware of what was coming, and even watching for it, when these lines were
spoken his heart seemed to rise in his throat, and his eyes were wet with
tears. The _Rip Van Winkle_ which Mr. Jefferson has played so often on
both sides of the Atlantic is his own version of the story, somewhat
elaborated by Mr. Boucicault; and Mr. Jefferson's Rip Van Winkle is Rip
Van Winkle himself.
It was Charles Burke who first discovered the possibilities lying dormant
in the character of Solon Shingle, a sort of Yankee juvenile Paul Pry, in
a two-act drama called _The People's Lawyer_, by Dr. J. S. Jones. "Yankee"
Hill and Joshua Silsbee--both admirable representatives of Yankee
character parts--played Solon Shingle as a young man, with all of the
"Down-East" characteristics which distinguish stage Down-Easters; and it
was not until he fell into the hands of Burke that he became the
simple-minded, phenomenally shrewd old man from New England, with a soul
which soared no higher than the financial value of a bar'l of apple-sass.
Until Mr. Owens, the last of the Solon Shingles, died and took Solon
Shingle with him, the drivelling old farmer from Massachusetts was as
perfect a specimen of his peculiar species as our stage has ever seen.
Judge Bardwell Slote may be called with justice "a humorous satire," which
is the subtitle given by Benjamin Woolf to the play of _The Mighty
Dollar_, in which he is found. He is a politician of the worst stamp, with
many amiable and commendable qualities. He is vulgar to an almost
impossible degree, personally offensive, and yet entirely delightful to
meet--on the stage, where Mr. Florence kept him for many hundreds of
successive nights. If he never existed in real life--and it is to be hoped
for the sake of our national credit that he did not--Mr. Florence made him
not only possible but probable.
[Illustration: JOHN T. RAYMOND.]
_The Senator_, written by David Lloyd, and retouched by Sydney Rosenfeld
for Wm. H. Crane, is a native legislator of a somewhat different type. He
is an honest politician, who may perhaps be found in the Senate of one of
the States of the nation, and even in the Upper House of the nation
itself. He is a man of energy and of what is called "snap"; he is full of
engagements which he has no time to keep; he is loquacious, of course, for
loquacity is part of his business capital; he is loud, self-made,
self-educated, self-reliant, and not always refined. His humor is
peculiarly American, and in Mr. Crane's hands he is very human.
Mr. Warner and Mr. Clemens, jointly with John T. Raymond, are responsible
for the character of Colonel Mulberry Sellers, a stage American from the
Southern States. He is quite as much exaggerated as Slote, and quite as
amusing. He can be found in part in all sections of the country, perhaps,
but as a whole, happily for the country, he does not exist at all, except
upon the stage.
The great charm of Joshua Whitcomb is that he is a real man of real New
England flesh and blood, so true to the life that when Mr. Thompson took
him to Keene, New Hampshire, not very far from Swanzey, his audiences
wanted their money back, on the ground that they got nothing for it but
what they saw, free of charge, all about them every day. "It warn't no
actin'; it was jest a lot of fellers goin' around and doin' things." The
manner in which Mr. Thompson goes about in _The Old Homestead_, and does
things, is the perfection of art; and if he is not the best of his class,
it is not because he is the least natural and the least lovable.
It is a curious commentary upon the rarity of typical stage Americans of
the gentler sex that only two of any prominence have appeared of late
years, and that these are everything but gentle, and are both played by a
man. Mrs. Barney Williams and Mrs. Florence were very popular as "Yankee
gals" with a previous generation; but to Neil Burgess must we turn now for
the only correct picture of the women who are fit to mate (upon the stage)
with those heroes of the stage who fill our rural homesteads and our
legislative lobbies. The Widow Bedott, and her friend of _The County
Fair_, most assuredly are worthy of equal rights with Joshua Whitcomb and
Bardwell Slote.
[Illustration: NEIL BURGESS AS THE WIDOW BEDOTT.
Drawn by Arthur Jule Goodman, after a photograph by Falk.--From the
collection of Evert Jansen Wendell.]
SCENE V.
THE LOCAL NEW YORK DRAMA.
"Like boys unto a muss."
_Antony and Cleopatra_, Act iii. Sc. 13.
The number of plays based upon life in New York, all of which are
strangely similar in title and in plot, or what must pass for plot, and
all of which have been seen upon the New York stage since the first
appearance of _Mose_, will surprise even those most familiar with our
theatrical literature. Taken almost at random from various files of old
play-bills, and from Mr. Ireland's _Records_, there were _A Glance at New
York;_ or _New York in 1848_; _New York As it Is_; _First of May in New
York_; _The Mysteries and Miseries of New York_; _Burton's New York
Directory_; _The New York Fireman_; _Fast Young Men of New York_; _Young
New York_; _The Poor of New York_; _New York by Gaslight_; _New York in
Slices_; _The Streets of New York_; _The New York Merchant and his
Clerks_; _The Ship-carpenter of New York_; _The Seamstress of New York_;
_The New York Printer_; _The Drygoods Clerk of New York_, and many more,
including _Adelle, the New York Saleslady_, which last was seen on the
Bowery side of the town as late as 1879.
These were nearly all spectacular plays, and they were usually realistic
to a degree in their representation of men and things in the lower walks
of life. Rich merchants, lovely daughters, wealthy but designing villains,
comic waiter-men, and pert chamber-maids with song and dance
accompaniment, were placed in impossible uptown parlors; but the poor but
honest printer set actual type from actual cases, and cruelly wronged but
humble maidens met disinterested detectives by real lamp-posts and real
ash-barrels, in front of what really looked like real saloons.
[Illustration: F. S. CHANFRAU AS MOSE.]
The original of all these local dramas was _New York in 1848_, or, as it
was called during its long run of twelve weeks at the Olympic in that
year, _A Glance at New York_. It was a play of shreds and patches,
hurriedly and carelessly stitched together by Mr. Baker, the prompter of
Mitchell's famous little theatre, in order to cover the nakedness of the
programme on the night of his own annual benefit. It had no literary
merit, and no pretensions thereto; and it would never have attracted
public attention but for the wonderful "B'hoy" of the period, played by F.
S. Chanfrau--one of those accidental but complete successes upon the
stage which are never anticipated, and which cannot always be explained.
He wore the "soap locks" of the period, the "plug hat," with a narrow
black band, the red shirt, the trousers turned up--without which the genus
was never seen--and he had a peculiarly sardonic curve of the lip,
expressive of more impudence, self-satisfaction, suppressed profanity, and
"general cussedness" than Delsarte ever dared to put into any single
facial gesture. Mr. Chanfrau's Mose hit the popular fancy at once, and
retained it until the Volunteer Fire Department was disbanded; and _A
Glance at New York_ was fol-lowed by _Mose in California_, _Mose in a
Muss_, and even _Mose in China_. Mr. Matthews, in an article contributed
to one of the magazines a few years ago, records the fact that during one
season Mr. Chanfrau played Mose at two New York theatres and in one
theatre in Newark on the same night.
_The Mulligan Guards_, _The Skidmores_, and their followers were the
legitimate descendants of _Mose_, and they came in with the steam-engines
and the salaried firemen, who took away the occupation and the
opportunities of Sy
|
its success, both in a political and
an industrial point of view.
THE FREEDMEN.
REV. JOSEPH E. ROY, D.D., FIELD SUPERINTENDENT, ATLANTA, GA.
* * * * *
SUMMER REVIVALS.
McLEANSVILLE, N.C.
The first Sabbath of September we began a series of meetings,
assisted by Rev. Geo. S. Smith and Rev. Mr. Turner, of Raleigh.
On the Sabbath the house would not hold the congregation. Quite
a number came from ten to twelve miles, a few from twenty to
twenty-five miles.
Many white people attended every night meeting. Indeed, more white
people attended the services than had ever attended any one meeting
here since the church was built. A number of them have expressed
themselves well pleased with the preaching.
Seven persons, two of them pupils in our Normal School, professed
faith in Christ. We think the influence on the community, both
white and colored, has been good.
* * * * *
SAVANNAH, GA.
My work in Savannah, as supply, during the summer, was greatly
blessed of the Lord. For nearly two months my efforts were to
become acquainted with the church and people in general, and in
the meantime we were preparing our hearts for the ingathering of
precious souls. On Monday night, July 18th, we began a series of
meetings for the unconverted. They continued about three weeks,
during which time thirty confessed Christ. Most of these, we
believe, were hopefully converted. Three or four of those who
sought Christ in the meetings have been brought out into the light
of a dear Saviour since the meetings closed; thus making the
number more than thirty. Seventeen united with us, and a few more
will come in at the next communion. Some, of course, joined other
churches with their parents or friends. We held a young convert’s
meeting each week from the close of the protracted meeting to the
last of September, when I left for school. There was nothing to
me more cheering than to listen to the simple child-like prayers
and talks of the young converts in their meetings. The youngest
are three little girls who are respectively about nine, eleven and
twelve years old. They are always at their post, and it is hoped
that their Christian lives will be long and active.
* * * * *
McINTOSH, CYPRESS SLASH, GA.
In my last letter I informed you of the extra series of meetings we
were having. We continued our protracted efforts for two weeks. Now
we have the grand result. On last Sabbath I baptized twelve hopeful
converts, and four were added on profession; all of these are
adults. Sixteen hopeful young men and women have been added to the
church within the last two weeks. God has greatly blessed us in our
efforts to build up His kingdom, for which we give many thanks, and
are very greatly encouraged. Pray for us that others may be added,
such as shall be saved.
* * * * *
TALLADEGA, ALA.
Our series of meetings began on the first Sabbath in September,
and at the first invitation offered to the unconverted, at the 11
o’clock service, five came forward inquiring the way of life, and
strange to say, each of that five was hopefully converted before
the next Sabbath. There were several other inquirers during that
week, but on account of repairs to the chapel, we were obliged to
close our meetings on Tuesday of the next week. Eleven united
with our church—six on profession, and five by letter. Not being
ordained, it was necessary that I should get some other minister
to perform the baptism and administer the Lord’s Supper. Elder
Shuford, in charge of the Methodist church in this place, aided me,
and the work was accomplished.
* * * * *
ANNISTON, ALA.
The revival work commenced in our county the middle of July. Since
that date several churches of different denominations have been
carrying on revival meetings. All, more or less, have rejoiced over
the ingathering of souls.
Even our own little church has felt the visitation of the Holy
Ghost and witnessed the gathering in of the sheaves into the
Master’s store-house. We began our meetings two weeks ago. The
first week we carried on a woman’s prayer meeting. The subject was,
“That the church might lay aside every weight and sin, which doth
so easily beset, and labor for the conversion of souls.” These
meetings did a great deal of good, for when the meetings proper
began, the church was ready to enter upon the Master’s work, which
it did with great earnestness. The meetings closed with eight
conversions. All united with us save one. Others are anxiously
seeking for the blessed Master. There was an expression of great
joy among my people to know that they had seven more to come around
the Lord’s table and take with us the emblems of our Lord’s broken
body and shed blood.
* * * * *
LAWSONVILLE AND THE COVE.
The church at Lawsonville has been blessed with a revival. There
were seven conversions and four accessions to the church. At
the Cove we enjoyed a revival season in which there were seven
conversions and three accessions. The meetings did great good in
reviving professed Christians, and bringing parties out of the
path of the church to a realization of their responsibilities to
God and society. I visited and assisted Bro. Snell at Kingston
during a revival at that place, in which there were several
conversions prior to my leaving, among which were four white men of
respectability in that community. I have just returned home from a
revival at my former station, Anniston, where much good was done in
reviving the church, and turning some seven or eight souls from the
error of their ways.
* * * * *
CHILDERSBURG, ALA.
We commenced our summer series of meetings on the fourth Wednesday
night in July. On the Sabbath we had a great gathering. In the
afternoon prayer meeting, every body seemed to be deeply impressed
with the spirit of the Lord, and at night many came forward for
prayers. The house was full all day and at night. About two o’clock
I was awakened by the alarm of fire, and one of my members rapped
at the door and said, “Our church is on fire!” I rose to my feet
and reached the church just as it was falling in.
We came down to the Baptist church and continued our meetings. Many
took a stand for the Lord and joined our church. After my meetings
were over, I helped others. At Shelby Iron Works twelve or fifteen
gave their hearts to the Lord, and at Talladega the meetings were
very interesting and profitable.
* * * * *
NASHVILLE, TENN.
On the first Sabbath of the month a revival began and continued for
two weeks. Our meetings were large and spirited, and all of us have
been benefited by them, some of us in a special manner.
The little flock is greatly strengthened and revived, and is in a
better working condition. All little jealousies and acrimonies
have been buried (I trust never to rise again), and a kindly
feeling pervades the entire atmosphere of our church circle. As a
result of the revival, five persons have been added to our church,
and these five are _live_ and not _dead_ Christians.
* * * * *
PARIS, TEXAS.
Our protracted meetings began here the fourth Sunday in June and
continued two weeks. We had no conversions, but the church was
revived. During these meetings many persons came forward to be
prayed for. Two weeks later the fire of the Holy Ghost which was
kindled here broke out at Pattonville. We joined our brethren out
there in a week and a half meeting. Before the meetings broke up we
had thirteen to come out on the Lord’s side; six joined our church,
and the rest went into other churches. Bro. Jordan Carter, a worthy
young member of my church, keeps up this work here and at New
Hope. The spiritual condition of these churches in the country is
good. Pattonville church has 30 or more members, and New Hope and
Paradise 43. These churches meet with us in a quarterly conference
regularly.
Our white brethren of the various denominations invited us colored
brethren to organize with them in a minister’s meeting which meets
every Monday at 3 P.M. We are discussing some very vital questions
in these meetings.
* * * * *
OPENING OF SCHOOLS.
* * * * *
BEREA, KY.
The Fall term of Berea College opens with greater promise than
ever before. There are more students, and they bring more money.
Two-thirds are colored, if the slightest shade of black is reckoned
negro; but, if divided according to predominance of color, fully
half are white.
* * * * *
McLEANSVILLE, N.C.
On the 16th of September we closed a two months Normal school, the
first ever attempted here. We enrolled 20 pupils, six of whom had
taught school, and four were preparing to teach next winter. Most
of the others were primary scholars.
Our pupils did good work. Since the school closed, some of our
pupils have attended a Teacher’s Institute in an adjoining county,
lasting a week. One of them proved to be one of the best scholars
present, was commended by the county superintendent of instruction,
who conducted the institute, and by him urged to attend the public
examination of teachers in October.
* * * * *
MONTGOMERY, ALA.
Swayne School opened last year with 300 pupils, this year with 400,
showing an encouraging increase of 100.
We are securing student aid from friends at the North for several
students who have gone from here to the higher institutions. Most
of our best students are quite young and can do as well here at
present, except that it is better for them to be in an institution
where they can be under proper control twenty-four hours in the
day. The social and church life of these people is so bad that we
advise all to leave for boarding-schools and colleges as soon as
they can.
* * * * *
EMERSON INSTITUTE, MOBILE, ALA.
The institute opened its doors on the 3d inst. The full corps of
seven teachers, including music teacher, were present. In the two
lower grades the attendance of pupils somewhat exceeded that of
last year; in the higher grades it was less. The total was 52. At
the end of four days it has increased to 75. This dilatory entrance
will probably continue until the total will run up to 300, or
thereabouts. Some of our students residing at remote points wrote
that many new ones would come; but the drought has delayed, perhaps
prevented them. The uncommon heat of the summer has cut off the
expected means of some. Poverty is keeping a considerable number
of our former Normal pupils at work for the present. The outlook
presents many hopeful points.
* * * * *
HOWARD UNIVERSITY.
REV. W. W. PATTON, D.D., WASHINGTON, D.C.
Our new year has opened at Howard University with great promise
of good. A remarkably large attendance at prayers, the first
day, showed an increase of punctuality in the return of the old
students, and an influx of new ones. Thus far 80 new students have
joined the Normal Department and about 30 the Preparatory. The
incoming Freshman Class of College numbers 8. Already 13 new ones
have joined the Theological Department and others are expected.
Many more would have come to it, but the standard of admission is
now much higher than it used to be, and will be gradually raised
as better and better material will be furnished. We discourage
and often reject poorly qualified applicants. The Medical and Law
courses are just commencing their term, and with bright prospects.
The medical faculty is one of eminence, three of its members
having been connected with the illness of President Garfield; Dr.
Purvis being the first to prescribe for him after the shooting;
Dr. Reyburn having been one of the six physicians in regular
attendance; and Dr. Lamb having performed the operation at the
autopsy. Last year this department had 81 students (a majority
being white), and this year the number will sum up to nearly quite
a hundred. It is open to ladies as well as gentlemen. All the law
graduates of last year (5 in number) have come back to take the
post-graduate course. The law students this year will number twenty
or more.
The University students, through poverty, are compelled to
spend the vacation in earning money (for which they find many
opportunities to the north of us), and have been acting as waiters
at the springs and the seaside resorts, where their good behavior
makes many friends and often secures benefactors. Eight of the
theological students gave themselves to missionary work with
great success during the summer. One received twenty converts
to the church, the Sabbath before he came back to resume study.
The others were in the rural district of Southern Virginia,
dark with ignorance, where they established day-schools as well
as Sunday-schools, aided in a very interesting Sunday-school
convention of that region, visited the families and preached
the Gospel. It is thought that several new churches will soon
result from these efforts, and one such was organized last month.
They gave special attention to encouraging young men to prepare
for usefulness as teachers and ministers, but hardly any proper
facilities exist there, and poverty prevents them from going
elsewhere to obtain education. We are continually tried by not
having the means to aid those seeking the higher education, as the
number increases and their literary character improves, while the
colored people must have educated leaders in church and state.
* * * * *
HAMPTON, VA.
MISS HELEN W. LUDLOW.
Hampton begins the year with a large influx of students. They
have come in much faster and more promptly than ever before. Last
year, our largest number was 385, including 70 Indians; now, on
the sixth day of school, we have 385, only 40 of whom are Indians.
They appear to be a good set—hopeful material—on the whole, in
advance of former years. Indeed, so many more have applied than it
is possible to accommodate, that it has been our duty, of course,
to select the best, and examinations have been more severe. Our
quarters are full to overflowing, especially the girls’. There is
a larger proportion of these than ever. Seven of our returning
students report that they have taught schools this vacation. A few
more who will return are still out teaching. Of the few students,
sixty-one reported having come through the agency of our graduate
teachers, and fourteen more through that of undergraduates. One
girl brought nine. Several of our graduate teachers came in person
to bring their students.
Forty-seven students reported as having worked as Sunday-school
teachers this summer. Some have been active in temperance work, and
give interesting account of their efforts, especially among the
young. They find the old people hard to touch. They are, of course,
most of them too young themselves to do as effective work as our
graduate teachers. A revival has been in progress through the
summer in some of the colored churches of Hampton, and our students
who stayed at the school to work through vacation, took part in the
meetings to some extent. Our own Sunday-school organization was
kept up under our resident graduates. In the course of the summer
our students here also interested themselves in an effort to aid
the Tuskegee Normal School, Alabama, taught by our two graduates,
Mr. Booker Washington and Miss Olivia Davidson; and succeeded by
their own exertions in raising by a festival and otherwise, $75
towards the payment of a small farm (already half paid for), by the
purchase of which Mr. Washington is trying to put his school on a
manual labor basis.
The Hampton School Mission Association, organized last year, will
continue its work by helping in the Sunday-schools in the town,
Bible reading in the jail and poor-house, and among the aged poor,
and aiding them in other ways within their power. Our young men
have taken a great pleasure in giving a day’s work now and then to
patch up some poor old cabin against the severity of the winter, or
to supply some poor old aunty with food and fire.
As to your inquiry for the number, condition and wants of students
seeking a higher education, I suppose if the question were put to
the school, how many would _like_ to pursue a higher education,
they would rise _en masse_, without always much appreciation of the
labor or the value in it; but the Hampton School is so well-known
to be established on the basis of self-help, and for the purpose
of immediate helpfulness, that it draws to it chiefly the class
who are glad of a chance to work their way through school, and are
seeking to fit themselves as promptly as possible for the work of
life. The opportunities for this, in learning trades and in Normal
training, are greater this year than ever.
General Armstrong left on September 27th for Dakota, with 30 Indian
students, 23 boys and 7 girls, who having been with us three
years, are now returning to their homes. The morning they started,
the last three of them were received into the church by baptism. We
feel hopeful for all, believing in the sincerity of their purpose,
as shown in their lives, to “walk the good road by the help of
Jesus.” Every boy and young man took with him from $15 to $25
worth of tools of his trade, which he had earned here by his own
labor. The girls had corresponding working implements. Provision
has been made ahead for their regular employment as soon as they
get to their homes, and Gen. Armstrong goes with them there, with
two ladies to take care of the girls, to get them settled, to visit
their agencies, and see their parents. He is expected back by the
15th, and has Government authority to bring back 42 new students,
including both sexes, 25 boys and 17 girls.
Forty Indian students are still in the school, and looking forward
with interest to having some new comrades to initiate into the
mysteries of civilization they have themselves so lately acquired.
They are about half of them Arizonas, some of them Apaches, bright,
docile and earnest. We only wish that those of their tribe now on
the war-path could join them here. After what experience we have
had, we should not be afraid to try them. It has led us to the
conclusion that the Indian is a human being, and susceptible of
development in the right direction, as well as “our brother in
black” or in white.
* * * * *
BEACH INSTITUTE.
PROF. H. H. WRIGHT, SAVANNAH, GA.
The fall term of Beach Institute has opened with a marked
improvement over the opening of a year ago. The pupils of the
previous year have returned with an earnestness for _work_, and
their deportment has been marked with a degree of quiet and
manliness which is very gratifying to their teachers. The new
pupils who have entered have fallen in with the current without
creating the least disturbance. The opening weeks of 1880 were
marred by continual quarreling and even fighting upon the
play-ground. This year there has been none. Quite a number of the
advanced pupils were hopefully converted during the summer, and are
showing the fruits of the Spirit in their lives in school. We have
great hopes of a continued outpouring of the Spirit upon the school.
During the recent cyclone the school-house remained comparatively
uninjured, but the “Home” was rendered roofless and floods of water
poured through the building. The colored people in this vicinity
suffered extremely. Hundreds who lived on the low islands or rice
islands, which are scarce ever covered with tidal waters, were
overwhelmed, their houses destroyed and large numbers drowned. Even
yet, a month since the storm, bodies of the dead negroes are being
found in out-of-the-way places. A planter told me today of two
such found a few days ago by his reapers in the middle of his rice
fields.
* * * * *
ATLANTA UNIVERSITY.
REV. C. W. FRANCIS, ATLANTA, GA.
We find on this second day of our school session a fair attendance
and good prospects for a prosperous year. The number registered
thus far is 125, of whom 82 are boarders, the number a little
larger than that of last year at the opening.
The proportion of new pupils is also a little larger, and in most
cases they come under the care and persuasion of older pupils who
have been teaching them during the vacation weeks. This mode of
recruiting has always been effective, and as our accommodations
have been used to their utmost capacity every season, we have never
ventured to employ any other means to secure attendance lest we be
overwhelmed. A most hopeful feature in the case of the incoming
students is the large preponderance of girls who come without any
special solicitation, which indicates a greatly improved sentiment
in regard to their education and position in the community, and
gives it abundant material for the most effective work in behalf of
the elevation of the people.
There has been little opportunity thus far to learn save from
letters as to the character of the missionary work done by the
pupils during their vacation, but we have good reason to know that
it has been more abundant and effective than in any season before.
A larger share of the pupils went out as followers of Christ than
heretofore, and a larger supply of temperance literature was put
into their hands, and the sentiment of the people toward them and
their work is increasingly favorable. It seems probable that the
appeals for assistance on the part of worthy pupils will be greater
than usual on account of the smaller returns their best endeavors
to help themselves have secured.
A severe and protracted drought has affected all this region,
so that the cotton crop was small and required early attention,
and pupils were taken out of school and attendance and pay were
rendered small. We meet under the shadow of sorrow, having lost
five students by death during the vacation, one of them a beloved
member of the senior class. We hope that the tender and thoughtful
feeling which manifestly prevails thus far may lead ere long to
great and blessed results.
* * * * *
LEWIS HIGH SCHOOL.
REV. S. E. LATHROP, MACON, GA.
Our school opened on the 3d of October with 64 scholars present.
This number was increased to nearly 90 during the first week, and
there will be constant additions until Christmas. Many of the
poorest pupils are busily picking cotton, to earn something for
school expenses, and will arrive within a month. Ten or twelve
of the older scholars of last year have now gone to Atlanta
University, so that there are not yet as many grown pupils as there
will be after cotton picking is over. Among the new students is a
young Methodist preacher, in charge of a circuit in an adjoining
county. He seems quite in earnest to learn. Another of our
excellent young men was converted while teaching during the summer,
and has done good work in Sunday-school, temperance and revival
meetings. Another taught school in the same county, and both
labored earnestly in the temperance cause. A bill was passed by the
legislature this summer, allowing the people of that county to vote
on the question of prohibiting the sale of liquor within their own
limits. These two young teachers, aided by another former pupil
teaching in an adjoining county, who has considerable talent for
public speaking, worked hard for prohibition. The result is seen in
the news that comes this morning, that prohibition carried the day
by a majority of nineteen votes.
Several new scholars have come into our school, and a larger number
will yet come through the efforts of these young teachers. The
attendance at opening is larger than for several preceding years,
and indications point toward a steady increase. Atlanta University
being within one hundred miles, draws off many of the older
students, but what is our loss is their gain. The dark and ignorant
communities of our common-wealth are being enlightened slowly but
surely, by the earnest young teachers from this and other schools,
and their influence is not small on the side of morality, religion
and progress.
The school opens more favorably than for several years before,
with an increase in the corps of teachers, and general prospects
for extended usefulness. There is a growing number of those who
desire advanced education, whose purpose it is to fit themselves
to enter some of the higher institutions. Their greatest hindrance
is their poverty; but the pay for school teaching is improving
somewhat, although most have to wait six or eight months before
receiving what they earn. There is, however, general progress in
most localities, and we are glad to believe that the Lewis High
School is doing its share, reaching out to uplift this whole region
of country.
* * * * *
BURRELL SCHOOL.
MR. E. C. SILSBY, SELMA, ALA.
We had feared that the effect of a prolonged season of drought,
occasioning small crops and high prices, would be to lessen
the attendance considerably. In this, however, an agreeable
disappointment was in store, as the number present upon the opening
day was four larger than the preceding year, and nearly twice that
for 1879. We opened with an attendance of 153, 19 of which number
are members of the advanced grammar and high school departments.
A number of last year’s advanced pupils have indicated their
intention to re-enter shortly. As yet, last year’s scholars who
have been employed in teaching have not returned. From a number
of these we have received word with reference to their work, and
learned of their expectations to be with us again.
One young man wrote of establishing a temperance society,
and laboring in a revival in the local church. He had a good
Sunday-school which he had supplied with “Quarterlies” containing
notes on the lessons, and he seemed to be accomplishing much good.
His location is one where for many years he has taught school. He
writes that he expects to return to Burrell.
Another young man, who says that he will re-enter, was last year in
school here for the first time, and was brought through the agency
of the former. He has written intelligently of his Sunday-school,
and has also sent on funds to me to be expended in papers.
Twin brothers from a town in an adjoining county, and last
year’s pupils, were converted at a special revival season in
the Congregational church here during the winter. To one of the
teachers, one brother wrote that he was “doing the best he could
teaching in the Sunday-school.” The other said that “the people out
there did not know much about managing a Sunday-school properly,
but he was working in it, and lent his “Quarterly” around among
others, showing them how to study their lessons from it.” These
brothers are about 15 years old.
We learn of the expected return of a pupil of ’79 who has
been laboring very acceptably for some time in Louisiana in
Sunday-school, church and temperance work. He brings a recruit for
Burrell also. Another last year’s pupil of ours, from the High
school grade, leaves the scholar’s seat to occupy a position behind
the teacher’s desk, in the building where for years she has been a
studious learner. She is a teacher in the A. M. E. Sunday-school
of this place, and a member of the choir. Two other young ladies,
former classmates of hers in Burrell, are, for the second year,
teaching with us also.
The nature of our school being, as it is, a city school, we have
not tried to crowd our work upon the attention of non-residents.
We have had, however, pupils from the country and adjoining
counties, every year for some time, with rare exceptions. New
pupils from elsewhere, brought through the agency of others, have
been referred to above. A very promising young man entered this
year from a county adjoining this one on the east, who had heard of
the school from former pupils. Three persons from a northern county
are, I am informed, to come in company with a last year’s pupil.
The condition of the cotton crop is such, that some are probably
remaining away to assist in gathering and storing the same. This is
often the case with country scholars.
The second day of the present session, one came to us as a pupil
who has sat in the legislative hall of this State as one of our
county’s representatives. He has been a teacher since then, and
realizing his deficiency, comes to learn along with children.
We think he shows a commendable spirit, and judging from his
persistency, predict his success.
* * * * *
TOUGALOO, MISS.
MISS K. K. KOONS.
The year opens full of promise to us. The school is not only much
larger than at the same time last year, but larger than at the same
time in any previous year except the first few, before the zeal
of this people on the subject of education had had time to abate.
Though Strieby Hall is not yet finished, the lower floor, chapel
and recitation rooms lack but the finishing touches and furniture,
the first of which it is rapidly receiving, the last of which we
look for daily.
We held our opening exercises in the chapel, fitted up with
temporary seats. Our overcrowded Girl’s Hall and dining-room of
last year prepared us thoroughly to enjoy the room which the
enlargement to the building affords. Though neither building is
completed, the work is being rapidly pushed forward. A number of
our students, who came expecting to enter school at once, were glad
of the opportunity to help themselves, and are putting in a month
of work upon the buildings before entering, thus somewhat lessening
the number enrolled at the opening.
Reports of the summer’s work given by our student teachers at
our weekly prayer meeting were very encouraging indeed. It has
been an unusually hard summer for many of them. Delay in finding
vacant schools, the failure of people to keep engagements made
with teachers, and hard fare, were very common. But though these
things came to us in our letters from them during the summer, they
were scarcely referred to in their reports. Interest in their work
and the people with whom they labored entirely overshadowed the
hardships. The disposition to take a cheerful view of things, and
cheerfully and earnestly to meet and work against difficulties and
discouragements, is becoming more manifest. Perhaps this is _one_
of the good results to be wrought in them by the sacrifice and
self-denial so bravely made after the burning of our chapel last
spring.
The interest in the Sabbath-school work is greater. Fewer
signers to the pledge are reported than in previous years. The
temperance work is the “pons asinorum” of our young people. And
well may it be, in view of the almost universal habit of drinking
and using snuff and tobacco. In this work they do grow greatly
“disencouraged.” But the number of signers to the pledge is, after
all, no criterion by which to measure the quiet work done in the
line of temperance.
The number enrolled at the opening last year was 46, this year 74.
The number of day scholars taught by our twenty student teachers
was 1,539; Sabbath-school scholars, 795; signers to pledge, 160;
conversions, 32.
* * * * *
FISK UNIVERSITY, NASHVILLE, TENN.
BY REV. H. S. BENNETT.
Fisk University has opened this year with unusual prosperity.
There are at this early date in the year 285 pupils in the entire
school. There are in Jubilee Hall 121 boarders, which is within 30
as many as have ever boarded in the hall. Judging from applications
which have been made, there will be by the middle of January next
75 more. Last night, at the faculty meeting, the question was
earnestly discussed, “What shall we do with those who apply, when
the hall is full?” as it is likely to be within a very few weeks.
It is felt by all of the faculty that if the crops had not been
cut short by the drought we should have had a rush of students
altogether unprecedented in the history of the University.
It is felt by those who have known the students for a number of
years that those of this year are a superior class. The quality
of the students improves with every year, showing that others are
at work elsewhere. We have received already this year several
students of advanced grade, who have come prepared to enter the
college classes. At this time we are negotiating with one who
desires to enter the senior college class and graduate next
commencement. We expect him in a few days.
The past years of schooling are beginning to tell upon the higher
training of the colored youth, and those who come to Fisk for the
first time take much higher grades than new students were wont to
do a few years ago. Most of the old students have been engaged in
teaching during the summer vacation. It is estimated that of 85
in the collegiate department, 60 or 65 taught school during the
summer. Wherever these teachers go, they secure a good name for
industry, conscientiousness, ability and energy. We are constantly
getting good words from white people, directors, superintendents
and private citizens in regard to the faithfulness and acceptance
with which our students discharge their duties. Almost all those
who teach are Christians and engage in Christian work, as a
matter of course, when they begin their day schools. As a general
thing, they enter at once into the Sabbath-school if there is
one, and start one if there is not, and generally get the entire
neighborhood enlisted.
There are two interesting features in relation to the students, the
like of which we have never had before. During the past few years
the trustees of the Peabody fund have sustained a Normal school for
white pupils. The effort has been made to secure an appropriation
from the State for this school in the years that are past. At the
last session of the Legislature an appropriation of $10,000 was
made for Normal schools, $2,500 for the colored children of the
State, that being their relative share. The Board of Education for
the State, to whom the disbursement of this fund was left, decided
that the fund for the colored students should be divided among 50
pupils, and that they should have the privilege of choosing between
five schools to which they should go. Each pupil would thus be
entitled to $50, and each school would receive on an average 10
students. Up to the present time Fisk has received 18 out of the
50, and it is well known that many of the Senators who had the
power of appointment had not taken action. We have no doubt that
others will come as the year passes by.
The other feature is this. Several colored men were elected to the
last Legislature, and as members had the right to appoint cadets to
the East Tennessee University, of course they all appointed colored
cadets. Some other republican members also appointed colored
cadets. This threw the trustees of the East Tennessee University
into great perplexity. It is against the law of the State to
educate white and colored pupils in the same institution: it is
also very much against the traditional prejudices not only of the
trustees of the University, but also of the people of the State.
The trustees met, and after a thorough discussion determined to
make arrangements with Fisk University if possible, to take their
colored cadets at $30 apiece. Fisk University was not averse to the
arrangement, and so the question was settled. We have now in the
University seven cadets, students of the East Tennessee University.
It is accepted by all here as an important truth, that the longer
we can keep a student the better it will be for him and the
institution and the work. The students in the collegiate department
give tone to the whole institution. Every department is lifted to
a higher standard by the high standard of the college department.
As the college graduates go out into the world, they have, without
an exception, taken advanced positions as teachers or other
professional men.
Livingstone Hall is now having its roof put on, and all are
watching its progress with the greatest interest, as promising a
time when the facilities of the institution will be almost doubled.
What we shall next need will be an ample endowment. Who will
provide this for us?
* * * * *
OBITUARY.
DEATH
|
The quince and the pomegranate probably originated
here and, with the olive, grape, almond, and, to the north at least,
the cherry and plum, have been cultivated from three to four thousand
years.
At very early times the quince, pomegranate, olive and grape were
introduced from Persia, according to De Candolle, still our best
authority, into Greece and Rome and even the cherry and plum, from
countries to the north if not from Persia, reached southern Europe long
before the peach. It seems certain, as De Candolle suggests,[1] that
if the peach had been a native of Persia, had it existed there during
all time, so beautiful and so delectable a fruit would have been taken
earlier into Asia Minor and Greece. As gratifying to all the senses by
which we judge fruits as any other product of the orchard, as easily
transported and propagated as any--more so than most--it cannot be
believed that the other fruits named would have been given preference
over the peach by conquerors or travelers carrying Persian luxuries to
westward countries.
Moreover, as De Candolle further points out, the several Hebrew
and Sanskrit peoples did not speak in sacred or vulgar writings of
the peach as they did many times of the olive, quince, grape and
pomegranate. Yet these peoples radiated from the valleys of the
Euphrates and were at all times in close communication with Persia.
Since, according to the authoritative De Candolle, Xenophon, who
retreated with the ten thousand 401 B. C., does not mention the peach,
this fruit probably did not reach Greece until Alexander's expedition
and was first mentioned by Theophrastus 332 B. C. (if the fruit
mentioned by Theophrastus is the peach) and did not reach Rome until
after the beginning of the Christian era.
The more one examines historical records the more evident it becomes
that Greek and Roman writers assumed that the habitat of the peach,
which they called the Persian apple, was Persia because it came
thence to their countries. Ancient historians very commonly and very
confusingly made the assumption that the region from which a plant
product came to their country was its first habitat.
The best means of establishing the origin of a plant is to discover in
what country it grows spontaneously. This would be a simple matter,
indeed, if one could be sure that a given plant found growing wild
is not an escape from cultivation. Here is the trouble in the case
of the peach. According to the botanists the tree is now growing
wild in Persia, as it is in nearby countries, and for that matter in
other parts of the Old World and in many places in the New World. The
painstaking De Candolle, who has carefully sifted the evidence of the
leading botanists until his time of writing, 1882, concludes that the
peach has never been truly wild in Persia. An examination of the works
of botanists writing since De Candolle's study of the subject does not
show that any offers proof that the peach was originally wild in Persia.
Without going into the matter further it seems safe to say that the
Greek and Roman writers were at fault in naming Persia as the home
of the peach. To summarize: its late distribution, as compared with
that of other Persian fruits argues against such an origin; philology,
which usually affords indications touching the habitat of a species, is
against the Persian theory of origin since neither Hebrew nor Sanskrit
names the peach; lastly, botany, the most direct means of discovering
the geographic origin of a plant, offers no positive evidence that
Persia is the home of the peach. The fallacy that the peach comes from
Persia, written in nearly all horticultural and botanical works for
2000 years, now being disposed of, we may take up the claim of China
that the peach is another of its great gifts to the world.
A survey of the subject is convincing that the peach comes from China.
Necessarily, such a survey must be brief, yet it is important that no
doubt be left as to the origin of the peach, thus freeing pomological
literature from the train of misunderstandings following the current
opinion that part of our peaches, at least, come from Persia. The terms
"Persian peaches" and the "Persian race of peaches" are misleading and
should be discarded. Data from botany and history furnish the chief
proofs that the fruit of this discussion is of Chinese origin.
Botany and history are a hard team to drive but when the two do travel
together in determining the origin of a plant the matter, as a rule,
is settled. Does botany accord with history in placing the original
peach in China? Botanists and explorers from first to last agree
that the peach is, and long has been, wild in China but there is no
agreement as to the nature of its wildness. Some say it is indigenous
and others that it may be an escape from cultivation. The peach runs
wild so quickly in countries to which it is adapted that it is almost
impossible to say, from the evidence to be found, whether it is an
original or only a naturalized inhabitant of China. But it seems more
nearly to approach a truly feral condition in China than in any other
country unless it be America and all know that in the New World it is
an introduced plant.
Of the botanists and explorers who report finding the peach wild in
China, Frank N. Meyer[2] of the United States Department of Agriculture
is most explicit. Meyer, in sending seeds of wild peaches from China,
accompanies them with the following remarks:
"40001. Wild peaches having larger fruits than the ordinary wild ones,
said to come from near Tze Wu, to the south of Sianfu, but some also
probably collected from trees in gardens which were raised from wild
seeds. When seen wild this peach generally assumes a low bush form of
spreading habit; when planted in gardens and attended to, it grows
up into a small tree, reaching a height of 12 to 20 feet, with a
smooth trunk of dark mahogany-brown color. The leaves are always much
smaller and more slender than in cultivated varieties, while their
color is much darker green. They seem to be somewhat less subject to
various diseases than the cultivated sorts and they are most prolific
bearers, although the fruit is of very little value on account of its
smallness and lack of flavor. In gardens around Sianfu this wild peach
is utilized as a stock for improved varieties. It is also grown as an
ornamental; said to be literally covered in spring with multitudes of
shell-pink flowers."
"40002. Wild peaches, occurring in the foothills of the higher
mountains at Tsing Ling Kang, Shensi, at altitudes from 2000 to 5000
feet, generally found at the edges of loess cliffs and on rocky slopes.
There is a great deal of variation to be observed as regards size and
shape of leaves, density of foliage and general habits."
"40003. Wild peaches found on a mountain side, near Pai dja dien,
Shensi, at an elevation of 4000 feet; these small trees and bushes had
borne such a heavy crop that the ground beneath them was covered with a
layer, a few inches thick, of the small, yellowish, hairy fruits. The
local inhabitants didn't consider them worth collecting even, and they
were rotting and drying up."
"40004. Wild peaches occurring as tall shrubs in loess cliffs, at the
Tibetan frontier, Kagoba, Kansu, at elevations of 6000-8000 feet.
Save for some children who eat these wild peaches, they are otherwise
considered worthless wild fruit. Local name _Yeh t'ao_, meaning 'wild
peach,' and _Mao t'ao_, meaning 'hairy peach.'"
"40005. Wild peaches found on stony mountain slopes in a wild, very
sparsely populated country, near Kwa tsa, on Siku River, Kansu. No
fruit trees whatsoever are cultivated by the local settlers in the
mountains, and the way some of these peach bushes grow excludes them
from ever having been brought there by any man or even any quadruped;
only birds might have transported them."
In a letter to the author,[3] Mr. Meyer says further:
"Where did I find the peach wild? Well, I first came across it in loess
cliffs in southern Shensi at an elevation of about 4000 feet above sea.
Later on I found plenty of them in central Shensi, in southern Kansu
and in the Tibetan borderland, up to 7000 feet elevation above sea. All
the plants I found were freestone types, and according to the natives
they all have shell-pink flowers. In the mountains of the Chekiang
Province, however, I found a type which seems to be clingstone."
In still another letter sent me from the United States Department of
Agriculture, Mr. Meyer says:
"It is about one month ago since I wrote you last, and so far as real
distance is concerned, I have not advanced much, but we went over some
very interesting territory and I was lucky enough to discover the
_real wild peach_, growing in loess ravines some 2-3 days to the East
from here, near a village called _Tchao yu_. The plants are of smaller
dimensions than our cultivated strains, and the stones are somewhat
different as regards shape and grooves, but still on the whole there is
little difference between a very poor seedling-peach and this wild one.
These wild peaches are locally cut for firewood, for the fruits are
pretty near inedible, being small and having hard, sourish flesh. They
grow at the edges of deep loess ravines and on the steep, sloping
bottom of such ravines. The Chinese locally do not call this peach
'_yeh tao_' or '_shan tao_' but '_Mao t'ao_,' meaning 'hairy peach.'
In the vicinity where they grow, no peaches are cultivated although
half a day's journey lower down, one meets with some poor looking trees
in gardens.
The elevation I found them was almost exactly 4000 feet above sea.
I gathered some fruits, but they are not quite ripe; I am trying to
ripen them off, however, so that we may obtain at least a few ripe
seeds. As a stock, however, it has not the value the _Davidiana_ peach
has, not being as vigorous and apparently being attacked by the same
pests that infest cultivated peaches. This 'find' is of great interest,
however, showing that wild peaches exist much nearer the coast than
we suspected, and that the peach naturally is a native of semi-arid
regions."
The explorations made by Mr. Meyer cover, of course, but a small part
of the vast empire of China. Further search will, no doubt, show many
other localities in Central and Eastern Asia where the peach grows
naturally and has probably done so from time immemorial.
As all who consult them know, ancient authors are often at fault in
matters of history in determining the origin of cultivated plants but
they are usually fairly accurate in stating the date of culture of a
plant in a country. In the case of the peach the date of culture can
be established as so much earlier in China than elsewhere that history
alone all but proves its previous existence there in the wild state.
In short, the peach was a cultivated fruit in China before there were
other agricultural communities from which it could come; for, be it
remembered, in China, according to De Candolle, our best authority,
agricultural and horticultural arts flourished long before they had
even begun elsewhere, unless, possibly, Egypt be excepted, and here the
peach, where it may be grown at all, is surely an introduced plant.
A statement of the first known dates of peach-culture in various
countries is strong proof that its cultivation began in China.
According to De Candolle[4] the culture of the peach was "spoken
of 2000 years before its introduction into the Greco-Roman world,
a thousand years before its introduction into the lands of the
Sanskrit-speaking race." As we have said, the Bible and other Hebrew
books do not mention the peach and there is no Sanskrit name for it.
Of the Greeks, Xenophon, 401 B. C., makes no mention of the peach but
Theophrastus, a little later, 322 B. C., speaks of it as a fruit of
Persia. Coming to the Romans, no mention is made of the peach by Cato,
201 B. C., nor by Varro, 117-27 B. C., but Pliny, A. D. 79, expressly
states that the peach was imported by the Romans from Persia not long
before.
De Candolle gives no authority for his statement that the peach was
spoken of 2000 years before its introduction into Europe and I cannot
verify it; but a search through even such Chinese literature as is
accessible to one who does not read the Chinese language shows that the
peach was commonly spoken of in the literature of China several hundred
years before the Christian era. Two examples must suffice, taking
those that seem most authentic as to the identity of the peach. In the
Shi-King, or book of poetry, a collection of ancient Chinese poems made
by Confucius (551-478 B. C.) the peach, in common with the plum, pear,
jujube and other fruits, is several times mentioned. According to the
translator all of these poems were written before the Sixth Century B.
C., the oldest dating back eighteen centuries. Thus in Book I,[5] Odes
of Chow in the South, is the following bit of verse:
In Praise of a Bride
"Graceful and young the peach-tree stands;
How rich its flowers, all gleaming bright!
This bride to her new home repairs;
Chamber and house she'll order right.
Graceful and young the peach-tree stands;
Large crops of fruit it soon will show.
This bride to her new home repairs;
Chamber and house her sway shall know.
Graceful and young the peach-tree stands;
Its foliage clustering green and full.
This bride to her new home repairs;
Her household will attest her rule."
Other references to the peach may be found in Book IX,[6] The Odes of
Wei, and Book XIII,[7] The Odes of Kwei.
Superstitions and legends throw light on the antiquity of the objects
with which they are connected. It is significant that the Chinese
alone ascribe miraculous powers to the peach, their traditions of the
properties of different forms of this fruit being both numerous and
very ancient. M. Cibot, a French missionary among the Chinese, in a
series of cyclopedic volumes on China, devotes a chapter to the peach
in which, after describing the peaches of the country and giving a
full discussion of methods of culture, he mentions numerous Chinese
superstitions concerning this fruit. He writes:[8]
"The Chinese have for a long time preserved the history of the first
ages either in their books or in their traditions. The oldest of their
books have perished. They have saved only a part of their ancient
national works on the great wars and general uprisings, and the
original traditions, changed in a thousand ways, made into fables,
finally corrupted by idolatry, are today only chaos; but this chaos
is not without any ray of light. Many of these traditions, although
disfigured, bear back too exactly to the marvelous tales of the lost
books to be able to mistake the beliefs of the early ages. Thus, there
are many traditions referring to the peach. Some call it the tree of
life, others the tree of death. Peaches lengthened to a point, of
large size, and colored red on one side, are regarded by the Chinese
as the symbol of a long life. In consequence of these ancient national
superstitions, peaches enter into all the ornaments of painting and
sculpture. They are saved for the salute to the new year. Here are
several ancient texts on the peach and its fruits:
From Chin-non-King: 'The peach 'Yu' signifies death and eternal life.
If one has been able to eat it enough times, it saves the body from
corruption till the end of the world.' From Chin-y-King: 'There is
in the Orient a peach whose almond, eaten, makes eternal life.' From
Chou-y-Ki: 'Whoever eats this fruit (the peach 'Yu' from the Koue-liou
Mountain) obtains immortal life.'
Still other texts could be cited but I will merely remark that in all
the peach is connected with immortality. Again we find that certain
peaches can not be offered by the ancients in sacrifice, and that the
premature blossoming of another peach signifies great calamities. To
quote again: From Sin-lin: 'In the garden of Yang was the peach of
death; whoever approached it must die.' From Fong-fou-teng: 'It is said
in the book of Hoang-ti that two brothers found on a mountain a peach
tree under which were a hundred demons to cause death to men.' From
Lietchouen, on the subject of the evils which afflict the earth: 'the
tree of Knowledge is the peach.'"
Very interesting and illuminating as to the age of the peach in China,
is an account given by Dr. Yamei Kin[9] who was asked by a member of
the staff of the Office of Foreign Seed and Plant Introduction, United
States Department of Agriculture, for information concerning the
peach-blossoms. After describing the several kinds of blossoms borne
by Chinese peaches, the writer gives some of the superstitions and
legends which the Chinese connect with the peach.
"The ordinary name for pink is peach flower color, and notwithstanding
the love of Chinese for color, it is used sparingly, in fact, owing to
its being associated with the peach blossom, seems to have an unsavory
significance, as I found when I came home one day with a pink satin
brocade gown that I had just purchased. My people held up their hands
in horror, and exclaimed it was a mercy that I did not intend to wear
that here, it would only do for outside countries that did not know
about peach flowers, which remarks led me to leave it in America when
I came back, though it was a very lovely delicate color and one of my
prettiest gowns.
The reason for this prejudice is owing to its symbolism. Just as the
violet is considered in western lands to be the symbol of modest worth,
so the plum is that of feminine virtue in China and the peach flower
the opposite. Not even the beauty of its color, whether delicate pink
or deep cerise, redeems it from this fatal significance. In order
that there may be no possible opportunity for a 'peach flower heart'
to spring up unawares in some girl of respectable family, it is not
considered wise to plant a peach of any kind near the bed room windows
of the court yards inhabited by the women, yet peach wands are supposed
to be especially useful to beat off all evil spirits, only they must
be plucked during a solar eclipse and a hole bored through one end
for hanging up by, during a lunar eclipse, which perhaps accounts for
their fewness, as during those times in the old days the people were
generally busily occupied in beating gongs and firing off crackers to
drive away the heavenly dogs which were supposed to be devouring those
luminaries, and no one had time to think of making peach wands. The
lucky possessor of an efficacious peach wand is supposed to be able to
sleep at night with it under his pillow in full confidence that no evil
spirits can harm him.
Taoism from early days has taken the peach as its particular fruit,
signifying longevity, much as the apples of Hesperides were symbolic in
the Grecian mythology.
Furthermore peach stones are often made into rosaries which are
considered specially fine. There is a collection of tales by one
Cornaby to be found in almost every library called 'A String of
Peach Stones.' And a host of legends cluster around the tale of Sun,
the stone monkey, eating the peaches of immortality stolen from the
gardens of the genii, whereby he attains immortality. This theme is
seen elaborated in many scenes, that decorate pottery, textiles, and
congratulatory scrolls.
I wish that I were not tied down so much by tedious detail in the
medical work, as there is a most interesting book that needs to be
translated telling much of the folk lore of the peach interwoven
with the plot, which is supposed to be the journey of Hsien tsang to
bring back the sacred sutras of Buddha from India. It is said that
this is an actual historic occurrence, but this tale is evidently
semi-religious and allegorical, as well, combining in itself the
characteristics of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, Hans Christian
Andersen, and the Arabian Nights, if you can imagine such a mixture,
yet giving graphic pictures of Chinese life in various phases that are
as true as when the book was written.
One of the most charming legends of peach flower lore is that of
the 'Peach Blossom Fountain,' an allegory written by T'ao Yuan Ming
between A. D. 365-427, describing how a fisherman got lost one day and
penetrating up a river finds himself in a creek bordered with many
peach trees full of bloom, at the end of which he comes upon a small
mountain in which is a cave which he traverses and enters on a new
country where there is every sign of prosperity, every one is courteous
to each other, kindliness and contentment prevail, but they wear the
garb of the times of the First Emperor some five centuries previous and
have been lost to the rest of the country ever since. The fisherman
returns after a sojourn with them, and tells his fellow villagers of
this wonderful country and stirs up so much interest that finally
the governor of the province joins in the search for this wonderful
country, but it is all of no avail and at last the fisherman realizes
that he will never more see the peach blossom days of his youth with
its rosy dreams and ideals that come but once in a lifetime."
Lastly, a significant fact suggesting the Chinese origin of the peach
is found in the behavior of this fruit in America. The peach is more at
home in North America than in any other part of the world unless it be
China. Now, that there is a pomological alliance between eastern Asia
and eastern America is well known. The remarkable relationship between
the plants of the two regions was first set forth by Asa Gray and
subsequent writers have added much to what he told us. The explanation
lies, as all agree, in similarities in climate. Now, with this
relationship of the wild and cultivated floras of eastern America and
China in mind, the rapid acclimation and acclimatization of the peach
in the United States are readily understood if we accept China as the
habitat of this fruit. On the other hand, the natural plant-products of
Persia find life anything but easy in eastern America.
There is but one further consideration before beginning the history
of the peach as a cultivated fruit. Thomas Andrew Knight and Charles
Darwin contended that the peach is a modified almond. This hypothesis
would scarcely deserve consideration were it not for the high authority
of the men who espoused it--the judgments of a Knight and a Darwin
cannot be overlooked.
HAS THE PEACH COME FROM THE ALMOND?
In the light of evolution every plant has been preceded by another and
since the peach and almond have many characters in common, one may have
descended from the other. But as to which, if either, is the parent
species it would seem idle to speculate with the shreddy and patchy
knowledge we now possess of the descent of plants. Yet Thomas Andrew
Knight, the greatest horticultural authority of his time and one of
the leading experimenters of all time in this field of agriculture,
maintained that the peach is a modified almond. His theory received the
support of several of the leading English horticulturists of the last
century and Darwin gave it credence to the extent of collecting data
for its substantiation.
Knight believed that the almond and the peach constituted a single
species and that by selection under cultivation an almond could
ultimately be turned into a peach.[10] He sought proof for his theory
in hybridization and on a tree raised from the seed of an almond
fertilized by peach-pollen produced a fruit with soft and melting flesh
and in all characteristics more like the peach than the almond. This
experiment, which in the light of our present knowledge of the laws of
inheritance does not in the least illuminate the hypothesis with which
Knight started, carried on in the medieval days of plant-breeding,
convinced not only Knight in his belief that the peach may be bred from
the almond but led others, even down to our own time, to accept the
theory.
Thus, a writer, presumably Lindley, in _The Gardener's Chronicle_[11]
in 1856 says "we are justified in the conclusion that the Almond
bears about the same relation to the Peach that the Crab bears to the
Cultivated Apple." Later, in the same article, the descent is pictured
as follows:
"1. Almond became more fleshy--Bad clingstone.
2. Bad clingstone became more fleshy--Good clingstone.
3. Good clingstone became more fleshy--Our soft peaches.
4. Soft peach sported, receding toward the original fleshy type
and lost its wool--Nectarine."
Another high authority in his time, Thomas Rivers,[12] in 1863, held
that peaches, if left to a state of nature would degenerate into
thick-fleshed almonds and makes the positive statement that he has "one
or two seedling peaches approaching very nearly to that state."
Darwin,[13] in 1868, considers Knight's supposition at length and while
he does not positively accept it, yet lends it his support by quoting
several authors who put forth proofs in favor of it. His most positive
statement in discussing the theory referring to facts regarding the
origin of the peach is: "The supposition, however, that the peach is a
modified almond which acquired its present character at a comparatively
late period, would, I presume, account for these facts."
Carrière,[14] one of the most eminent French pomologists of the last
century, is the chief French champion of the theory that the peach
came from the almond and devotes several pages in his estimable work,
_Variétés De Pêchers_, in demonstrating that the one is a form of the
other. His arguments, however, are but amplifications of those of
Knight and Lindley though he cites more intermediate forms than either
of the English writers--so many that they go far toward convincing one
of the correctness of his views. There is the feeling, however, in the
case of Carrière, in the light of present knowledge, that his botanical
evidence is pushed a little too far for full credulity.
Knight, Lindley, Rivers, Darwin and Carrière, the men holding the
theory whose opinions are most worthy consideration, fell into error,
as we think, through attaching too much importance to likenesses in
the fruits of the peach and almond and because they became confused
in following the behavior of the two fruits under hybridization. As
we shall show later in discussing the characters of the peach, this
fruit differs from the almond in other characters than those of the
fruit--characters not at all likely to be changed by cultivation
and selection as would all those of the fruits. Knight's proof from
hybridization was purely speculative. The fact that the peach and
almond may be crossed, giving intermediate forms, nowadays would not be
looked upon as proof that the two necessarily belong to one species.
However, in the light of the knowledge in existence at the beginning
of the last century regarding the crossing of plants, we need not
apologize for the inference that Knight drew from his simple experiment.
Students of heredity would find almost conclusive proof that the peach
is not a modified almond--a descendant, say, in this geologic period at
least--in the fact that there is no recorded case of a peach fertilized
by a peach producing an almond, or _vice versa_. If the relationship
were at all close, if the two species had had a common origin even
though in rather remote times, if they were nearly enough related
readily to hybridize or be hybridized, it would be expected that now
and then, as in the case of a nectarine, the peach would produce an
almond or the almond a peach.
Geographical botany also opposes Knight's hypothesis, as De
Candolle[15] points out, for, as he plainly shows, the almond had its
origin in western Asia, it being found truly wild in many parts of
south-western Asia and having been cultivated many centuries before
the peach was known in these regions. On the other hand, the almond
was not known in China before the Christian era whereas the peach had
been cultivated there at least 2000 years anterior to the introduction
of the almond. With such widely separated habitats, the two fruits can
hardly be considered as parent and offspring.
We cannot close our eyes to the patent relationships of the peach and
the almond. That the two constitute but one species, as we now consider
species, or that they bear the close relationship of the peach and
the nectarine, probably no one now in high authority will concede.
But for the weight of the names we have used, and the fact that the
theory still finds supporters, Knight's hypothesis, the outcropping of
a speculative mind in a speculative age, might have been overlooked or
dismissed with a word.
THE PEACH IN ASIA
We must have more knowledge of the peach in Asia than the bare fact
that it originated somewhere in the vast empire of China. We want,
first, to know what the characters of the prototypal peach were. If we
can get some idea of the original wild peach of China we shall know
something of how this fruit has been improved by man and, perhaps,
something of its future potentialities. Second, though not essential
to this study, it will be profitable to peach-growers to inquire
whether there are types of peaches still remaining in China that might
be improved under western cultivation. If so, we want them, since our
cultivated peaches are not free from faults, some of which we might
get rid of by the interjection of new blood. It is now about seventy
years since Robert Fortune, the adventurous English plant-collector,
began dipping into the horticultural treasures of China; and recent
explorations make plain that there are still riches in plants in that
country--the fact that they can now be brought through the "open door,"
instead of as spoils to be smuggled out, makes it easier to obtain any
new types of peaches that may now be found.
What were the characters of the prototypal peach in China? The few
records that have come down through the ages do not enable us to form
much of a picture of the primitive peach. But plants do not change
quickly in China, for their orchard-cultivation is not as intensive nor
selection as assiduously practiced as in western countries, so that
we are warranted in assuming that cultivation for forty centuries has
not greatly changed this fruit. Besides, it is probable that the wild
forms, whether truly wild or reverted escapes from cultivation, now
represent closely the original indigenous stocks of the peach. Luckily,
we have trustworthy sources of information in regard to both the wild
and the cultivated peaches as they now grow in China. We are at this
time concerned, it should be said, only with the common peach, _Prunus
persica_.
Fortune began botanical explorations in China in 1844, since which
time one enthusiast after another, thirsting for botanical spoils and
honors, has brought from eastern Asia and Europe to America, varieties
and species of ornamental and agricultural plants. In the accounts of
these exploring and collecting expeditions, there are many records of
peaches, wild and cultivated, that are now growing in China and from
these we may piece out a fair description of the original races of
this fruit. The United States Department of Agriculture, through its
agricultural explorers, collaborators and correspondents in the Office
of Foreign Seed and Plant Introduction, has given special attention
to agricultural plants and from the accounts of the workers in this
department alone, we can get a good picture of the peach of the
Twentieth Century in China which, as we think, will represent very well
the original stock from which all peaches have come.
It is now almost the unanimous judgment of scientists that the
characters of plants are independent entities which are thrown
into various relationships with each other in individuals and
groups of individuals as varieties and species. This conception of
unit-characters lies at the foundation of botanical and horticultural
descriptions and of plant-breeding. It is more important, then, to know
what the characters of Chinese peaches were and are than to attempt to
describe in full the wild and cultivated peaches of China. In this, a
horticultural study, it answers our purpose to consider chiefly the
characters of the fruits.
The fruit-characters that differentiate races and varieties of
cultivated peaches in America are ten, as follows: Downy skin; smooth
skin; white flesh; yellow flesh; red flesh; flesh clinging to the
stone; flesh free from the stone; shape more or less round; shape
roundish but decidedly beaked; shape distinctly flat. Let us see by
direct quotations from the workers in the United States Department of
Agriculture how many of these ten fruit-characters are named in the
wild and cultivated Chinese peaches of today.
_Downy skin._--A downy skin is the normal condition of the peach.
This character is found in all of the peaches to be mentioned in this
discussion except those under the next heading.
_Smooth skin._--"28963--From Samarkand, Turkestan."[16]
"A small nectarine of very firm flesh and of subacid flavor; red
throughout; from a distance resembles a crab apple more than anything
else. Said to come from Chartchui."
"29227[17]--From Samarkand, Russian Turkestan. A yellow clingstone
nectarine of medium size; meat very firm and of medium sweet taste, not
melting."
"30325[18]--From Khotan, Chinese Turkestan. A nectarine called
_Dagatch_. Fruits red, of medium size, clingstone."
"30332[19]--From Karghalik, Chinese Turkestan. A nectarine called
_Anar-shabdalah_. Fruits rather small, whitish pink in color, and of
sweet, aromatic flavor. This is a medium-late ripen er and a rare local
variety."
"30334[20]--From Shagra-bazar, Chinese Turkestan. A nectarine called
_Kizil-dagatch_. Fruits small, red; medium early."
"30335[21]--From Upal, Chinese Turkestan. A nectarine called
_Ak-tagatch_. Fruits large, white; a late ripener; of good keeping and
shipping qualities."
"30336[22]--From Yarkand, Chinese Turkestan. A nectarine called
_Ak-dagatch_. Fruits medium-sized, of white color; clingstone; late in
ripening; of good keeping and shipping qualities."
"30341[23]--From Upal, Chinese Turkestan. A nectarine called _Kizil
tagatch_. Fruits large, red throughout; meat firm; of good keeping and
shipping qualities."
"30359[24]--From Kashgar, Chinese Turkestan. A very large, red,
clingstone nectarine; late ripener; can be kept for several weeks after
being fully ripe."
"30647[25]--From Khotan, Chinese Turkestan. A nectarine called _Togatch
Moneck_."
"30648[26]--From Guma, Chinese Turkestan. A small late variety of
nectarine, white in color, of fresh, sweet taste and good keeping
qualities."
_White flesh._--"27111[27]--Chinese name _Ta po tao_. A large white
peach, native in Shantung Province, China (Chefoo district)."
"30324[28]--From Khotan, Chinese Turkestan. A peach called
_Ak-shabdalah_. Fruits large, white, juicy, and aromatic; an early
ripener."
"30337[29]--From Shagra-bazar, Chinese Turkestan. A peach called
_Kok-shabdalah_. Fruits medium large, of greenish-white color; taste
sweet; medium late; not a keeper."
"30338[30]--From Yarkand, Chinese Turkestan. A peach called
_Taka-shabdalah_. F
|
, but his throw erred, and the missile fell harmlessly into
the wheat field beyond, startling a blackbird with scarlet marks, which
soared suddenly above the bearded grain and vanished, with a tremulous
cry and a flame of outstretched wings, into the distant wood.
The sun had gone down behind the pines and a warm mist steamed up from
the cooling earth, condensing into heavy dew on the dusty leaves of the
plants in the ditch. Above the lowering pines the horizon burned to a
deep scarlet, like an inverted brazier at red heat, and one gigantic
tree, rising beyond the jagged line of the forest, was silhouetted
sharply against the enkindled clouds. Suddenly, from the shadows of the
long road, a voice rose plaintively. It was rich and deep and
colourific, and it seemed to hover close to the warmth of the earth,
weighed down by its animal melody. It had mingled so subtly with the
stillness that it was as much a part of nature as the cry of a
whip-poor-will beyond the thicket or the sunset in the pine-guarded
west. At first it came faintly, and the words were lost, but as Nicholas
gained upon the singer he caught more clearly the air and the song.
"_Oh, de Ark hit came ter res'
On-de-hill,
Oh, de Ark hit came ter res'
On-de-hill,
En' dar ole Noah stood,
En' spread his han's abroad,
Er sacri-fice ter-Gawd
On-de-hill._"
Nicholas quickened his pace into a run and, in a moment, saw the
stooping figure of an old negro toiling up the red clay hillside, a
staff in his hand and a bag of meal on his shoulder. In the vivid light
of the sunset his stature was exaggerated in size, giving him an
appearance at once picturesque and pathetic--softening his rugged
outline and magnifying the distortion of age.
As he ascended the gradual incline he planted his staff firmly in the
soil, shifting his bag from side to side and uttering inaudible grunts
in the pauses of his song.
"_En' dar, mid flame en smoke,
De great Jehovah s-poke.
En' awful thunder b-roke,
On-de-hill._"
"Uncle Ish!" called the boy sharply. The old man lowered the bag from
his shoulder and turned slowly round.
"Who dat?" he demanded severely. "Ain't I done tell you dar ain' no
ha'nts 'long dis yer road?"
"It's me, Uncle Ish," said the boy. "It's Nick Burr. I heard you singing
a long ways off."
"Den what you want ter go a-hollerin' en a-stealin' up on er ole nigger
fer des' 'bout sundown?"
"But, Uncle Ish, I didn't mean to scare you. I jest heard--"
"Skeer! Who dat you been skeerin'? Ain't I done tole you dar ain' no
ha'nts round dese parts? What I gwine ter be skeered fer uv er little no
'count white trash dat ain' never own er nigger in dere life? Who you
done skeer dis time?"
He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and went on his way,
the boy trotting beside him. For a time the old man muttered angrily
beneath his breath, and then, becoming mollified by the boy's silence,
he looked kindly down on the small red head at his elbow.
"You ain't said howdy, honey," he remarked in a fault-finding tone. "Dar
ain' no manners dese days, nohow. Dey ain' no manners en dey ain' no
nuttin'. De niggers, dey is gwine plum outer dey heads, en de po' white
trash dey's gwine plum outer dey places."
He looked at Nicholas, who flinched and hung his head.
"Dar ain' nobody lef to keep 'em ter dey places, no mo'. In Ole Miss'
time der wa'nt no traipsin' roun' er niggers en intermixin' up er de
quality en de trash. Ole Miss, she des' pint out der place en dey stay
dar. She ain' never stomach noner der high-ferlutin' doin's roun' her.
She know whar she b'long en she know whar dey b'long. Bless yo' life,
Ole Miss wuz dat perticklar she wouldn't drink arter Ole Marster,
hisself, 'thout renchin' out de gow'd twel t'wuz mos' bruck off de
handle."
He sighed and shifted his bag.
"Ef Ole Miss 'ud been yer thoo' dis las' war, dar wouldn't er been no
slue-footed Yankees a-foolin' roun' her parlour. She'd uv up en show'd
'em de do'--"
"Are all Yankees slue-footed, Uncle Ish?"
"All dose I seed, honey--des' es slue-footed. En dar wuz Miss Chris' en
ole Miss Grissel a-makin' up ter 'em, en a-layin' out er demselves fer
'em en a-spreadin' uv de table, des' de same es ef dey went straight on
dey toes. Dar wan't much sense in dat ar war, nohow, an' I ain' never
knowed yit what 'twuz dey fit about. Hit wuz des' a-hidin' en a-teckin'
ter de bushes, en a-hidin' agin, en den a-feastin', en a-curtsin' ter de
Yankees. Dar wan't no sense in it, no ways hits put, but Ise heered
Marse Tom 'low hit wuz a civil war, en dat's what it wuz. When de
Yankees come a-ridin' up en a-reinin' in dere hosses befo' de front
po'ch, en Miss Chris come out a-smilin' en a-axin' howdy, en den dey
stan' dar a-bowin' en a-scrapin', hit wuz des' es civil es ef dey'd come
a-co'tin'. But Ole Miss wuz dead en buried, she wuz."
Nicholas shook his head without speaking. There was a shade of
consolation in the thought that the awful "Ole Miss" was below the earth
and beyond the possibility of pointing out his place.
The brazier in the west snapped asunder suddenly, and a single forked
flame shot above the jagged pines and went out in the dove-coloured
clouds. In a huge oak beyond the rail fence there was a harsh rustling
of wings where a flock of buzzards settled to roost.
"Yes, Lord, she wuz dead en buried," repeated Uncle Ish slowly. "En dar
ain' none like her lef' roun' yer now. Dis yer little Euginny is des'
de spit er her ma, en it 'ud mek Ole Miss tu'n in her grave ter hear
tell 'bout her gwines on. De quality en de po' folks is all de same ter
her. She ain' no mo' un inspecter er pussons den de Lord is--ef Ole Miss
wuz 'live, I reckon she'd lam 'er twel she wuz black en blue--"
"Is she so very bad?" asked Nicholas in an awed voice.
Uncle Ish turned upon him reprovingly.
"Bad!" he repeated. "Who gwine call Ole Miss' gran'chile bad? I don't
reckon it's dese yer new come folks es hev des' sprouted outer de dut es
is gwine ter--"
At this instant the sound of a vehicle reached them, gaining upon them
from the direction of Kingsborough, and they fell to one side of the
road, leaving room for the horses to pass. It was the Battle carriage,
rolling heavily on its aged wheels and creaking beneath the general's
weight.
"Howdy, Marse Tom!" called Uncle Ishmael. The general responded
good-naturedly, and the carriage passed on, but, before turning into the
branch road a few yards ahead, it came to a standstill, and the bright,
decisive voice of the little girl floated back.
"Uncle Ish--I say, Uncle Ish, don't you want to ride?"
"Dar, now!" cried Uncle Ishmael exultantly. "Ain't I tell you she wuz
plum crazy? What she doin' a-peckin' up en ole nigger like I is?"
He hastened his steps and scrambled into the seat beside the driver,
settling his bag between his knees; and, with a flick of the peeled
hickory whip, the carriage rolled into the branch road and disappeared,
scattering a whirl of mud drops as it splashed through the shallow
puddles which lingered in the dryest season beneath the heavy shade of
the wood.
Nicholas turned into the branch road also, for the poor lands of his
father adjoined the slightly richer ones of the Battles. He felt tired
and a little lonely, and he wished suddenly that a friendly cart would
come along in which he might ride the remainder of the way. Between the
densely wooded thicket on either side, the road looked dark and solemn.
It was spread with a rotting carpet of last year's leaves, soft and damp
under foot, and polished into shining tracks in the ruts left by passing
wheels. Through the dusk the ghostly bodies of beech trees stood out
distinctly from the surrounding wood, as if marked by a silver light
falling from the topmost branches. The hoarse, grating notes of
jar-flies intensified the stillness.
Nicholas went on steadily, spurred by superstitious terror of the
silence. He remembered that Uncle Ish had said there were no "ha'nts"
along this road, but the assurance was barren of comfort. Old Uncle
Dan'l Mule had certainly seen a figure in a white sheet rise up out of
that decayed oak stump in the hollow, for he had sworn to it in the
boy's presence in Aunt Rhody Sand's cabin the night of her daughter
Viny's wedding. As for Viny's husband Saul, he had declared that one
night after ten o'clock, when he was coming through this wood, the
"booger-boos" had got after him and chased him home.
At the end of the wood the road came out upon the open again, and in
the distance Nicholas could see, like burnished squares, the windows of
his father's house. Between the thicket and the house there was a long
stretch of clearing, which had been once planted in corn, and now
supported a headless army of dry stubble, amid a dull-brown waste of
broomsedge. The last pale vestige of the afterglow, visible across the
level country, swept the arid field and softened the harsh outlines of
the landscape. It was barren soil, whose strength had been exhausted
long since by years of production without returns, tilled by hands that
had forced without fertilising. There was now grim pathos in its
absolute sterility, telling as it did of long-gone yields of grain and
historic harvests.
Nicholas skirted the waste, and was turning into the pasture gate on the
opposite side of the road, when he heard the shrill sound of a voice
from the direction of the house.
"Nick!--who--a Nick!"
On one of the cedar posts of the fence of the cow-pen he discerned the
small figure and green cotton frock of his half-sister, Sarah Jane, who
was shouting through her hollowed palms to increase the volume of sound.
"I say, Nick! The she-ep hev' been driv-en u-p! Come to sup-per!"
She vanished from the post and Nicholas ran up the remainder of the road
and swung himself over the little gate which led into the small square
yard immediately surrounding the house. At the pump near the back door
his father, who had just come from work, was washing his hands before
going into supper, and near a row of pointed chicken coops the three
younger children were "shooing" up the tiny yellow broods. The yard was
unkempt and ugly, run wild in straggling ailanthus shoots and littered
with chips from the wood-pile.
As he entered the house he saw his stepmother placing a dish of fried
bacon upon the table, which was covered with a "watered" oilcloth of a
bright walnut tint. At her back stood Sarah Jane with a plate of corn
bread in one hand and a glass pitcher containing buttermilk in the
other. She was a slight, flaxen-haired child, with wizened features and
sore, red eyelids.
As his stepmother caught sight of him she stopped on her way to the
stove and surveyed him with sharp but not unkindly eyes.
"You've been takin' your time 'bout comin' home," she remarked, "an' I
reckon you're powerful hungry. You can sit down if you want to."
She was long and lean and withered, with a chronic facial neuralgia,
which gave her an irritable expression and a querulous voice. For the
past several years Nicholas had never seen her without a large cotton
handkerchief bound tightly about her face. She had been the boy's aunt
before she married his father, and her affection for him was proved by
her allowing no one to harry him except herself.
"How's your face, ma?" asked Nicholas with the indifference of habit as
he took his seat at the table, while Sarah Jane went to the door to call
her father. When Burr came in the inquiry was repeated.
"Face any easier, Marthy?" It was a form that had been gone through
with at every meal since the malady began, and Marthy Burr, while she
deplored its insincerity, would have resented its omission.
"Don't you all trouble 'bout my neuralgy," she returned with resigned
exasperation as she stood up to pour the coffee out of the large tin
boiler. "It's mine, an' I've borne worse things, I reckon, which ain't
sayin' that 'tain't near to takin' my head off."
Amos Burr drank his coffee without replying, the perspiration standing
in drops on his large, freckled face and shining on his heavy eyebrows.
Presently he looked at Nicholas, who was eating abstractedly, his gaze
on his plate.
"I got that thar piece of land broke to-day," he said, "an' I reckon you
can take the one-horse harrow and go over it to-morrow. Them peanuts
ought to hev' been in the ground two weeks ago--"
"They ain't hulled yet," interrupted his wife. "Sairy Jane ain't done
more'n half of 'em. She and Nick can do the balance after supper. Hurry
up, Sairy Jane, and get through. Nannie, don't you touch another slice
of that middlin'. You'll be frettin' all night."
Nicholas looked up nervously. "I don't want to harrow the land
to-morrow, pa," he began; "the judge said I might come in to school--"
Amos Burr looked at him helplessly. "Wall, I never!" he exclaimed.
"Did you ever hear the likes?" said his wife.
"I can go, pa, can't I?" asked Nicholas.
"He can go, pa, can't he?" repeated Sarah Jane, looking up with her
mouth wide open and full of corn bread.
Burr shook his head and looked at his wife.
"I don't see as I can get any help," he said. "You're as good as a hand,
and I can't spare you." Then he concluded with a touch of irritation, "I
don't see as you want any more schoolin'. You can read and write now a
heap better'n I can."
Nicholas choked over his bread and his lips trembled.
"I--I don't want to be like you, pa!" he cried breathlessly, and the
unshed tears stung his eyelids. "I want to be different!"
Burr looked up stolidly. "I don't see as you want any more schoolin',"
he repeated stubbornly, but his wife came sharply to the boy's
assistance.
"I wish you'd stop pesterin' the child, Amos," she said, inspired less
by the softness of amiability than by the genius of opposition. "I don't
see how you can be everlastingly doin' it--my dead sister's child, too."
Nicholas swallowed his tears with his coffee and turned to his father.
"I can get up 'fore day and do a piece of the land, and I can help you
'bout the sowin' when I get back in the evening. I'll be back by
twelve--"
"Oh, I reckon you can go if you're so set on it," said Amos gruffly. He
rose and left the room, stopping in the hall to get a bucket of
buttermilk for the hogs. Nicholas went over to the window and joined
Sarah Jane, who was shelling the peanuts, carefully separating the outer
hulls from the inner pink skins, which were left intact for sowing.
Marthy Burr, who was clearing off the table, let fall a china dish and
began scolding the younger children.
"I declare, if you don't all but drive me daft!" she said, flinching
from a twinge of neuralgia and raising her voice querulously. "Why can't
you take yourselves off and give me some rest? Nannie, you and Jake go
out to the old oak and see if all the turkeys air up. Be sure and count
'em--and take Jubal (the youngest) 'long with you. If you see your pa
tell him I say to look at the brindle cow. She acted mighty queer at
milkin', and I reckon she'd better have a little bran mash--Sairy Jane,"
turning suddenly upon her eldest daughter, "if you eat another one of
them peanuts I'll box your jaws--"
Nicholas finished the peanuts and went upstairs to his little attic
room. He was not sleepy, and, after throwing himself upon his corn-shuck
mattress, he lay for a long time staring at the ceiling, thinking of the
morrow and listening to the groans of his stepmother as she tossed with
neuralgia.
IV
In the first glimmer of dawn Nicholas dressed himself and stole softly
down from the attic, the frail stairway creaking beneath his tread. As
he was unfastening the kitchen door, which led out upon a rough plank
platform called the "back porch," Marthy Burr stuck her head in from the
adjoining room where she slept, and called his name in a high-pitched,
querulous voice.
"Is that you, Nick?" she asked. "I declar, I'd jest dropped off to sleep
when you woke me comin' down stairs. I never could abide tip-toein',
nohow. I don't see how 'tis that I can't get no rest 'thout bein' roused
up, when your pa can turn right over and sleep through thunder. Whar you
goin' now?"
Nicholas stopped and held a whispered colloquy with her from the back
porch. "I'm goin' to drag the land some 'fore pa gets up," he answered.
"Then I'm goin' in to town. You know he said I might."
His stepmother shook her bandaged head peevishly and stood holding the
collar of her unbleached cotton gown.
"Oh, I reckon so," she responded. "I was think-in' 'bout goin' in myself
and hevin' my tooth out, but I s'pose I can wait on you. The Lord knows
I'm used to waitin'."
Nicholas looked at her in perplexity, his arm resting on the little
shelf outside, which supported the wooden water bucket and the
long-handled gourd.
"You can go when I come back," he said at last, adding with an effort,
"or, if it's so bad, I can stay at home."
But, having asserted her supremacy over his inclinations, Marthy Burr
relented. "Oh, I don't know as I'll go in to-day," she returned. "I
ain't got enough teeth left now to chew on, an' I don't believe it's the
teeth, nohow. It's the gums--"
She retreated into the room, whence the shrill voice of Sairy Jane
inquired:
"Air you up, ma? Why, 'tain't day!"
Nicholas closed the door and went out upon the porch. The yard looked
deserted and desolated, giving him a sudden realisation of his own
littleness and the immensity of the hour. It was as if the wheels of
time had stopped in the dim promise of things unfulfilled. A broken
scythe lay to one side amid the straggling ailanthus shoots; near the
wood-pile there was a wheelbarrow half filled with chips, and at a
little distance the axe was poised upon a rotten log. From the small
coops beside the hen-house came an anxious clucking as the fluffy yellow
chickens strayed beneath the uneven edges of their pointed prisons and
made independent excursions into the world.
In the far east the day was slowly breaking, and the open country was
flooded with pale, washed-out grays, like the background of an
impressionist painting. A heavy dew had risen in the night, and as the
boy passed through the dripping weeds on his way to the stable they left
a chill moisture upon his bare feet. His eyes were heavy with sleep,
and to his cloudy gaze the familiar objects of the barnyard assumed
grotesque and distorted shapes. The manure heap near the doorway
presented an effect of unreality, the pig-pen seemed to have suffered
witchery since the evening before, and the haystack, looming vaguely in
the drab distance, appeared to be woven of some phantasmal fabric.
He led out the old sorrel mare and followed her into the large ploughed
field beyond the cow-pen, where the harrow was lying on one side of the
brown ridges. As he passed the pen the startled sheep huddled into a far
corner, bleating plaintively, and the brindle cow looked after him with
soft, persuasive eyes. When he had attached the clanking chains of the
plough harness to the single-tree, he caught up the ropes which served
for reins and set out laboriously over the crumbling earth, which
yielded beneath his feet and made walking difficult.
The field extended from the cow-pen and the bright, green rows of
vegetables that were raised for market to the reedy brook which divided
his father's land from that belonging to General Battle. The brook was
always cool and shady, and silvery with minnows darting over the shining
pebbles beneath the clear water. As Nicholas looked across the neutral
furrows he could see the feathery branches of willows rising from the
gray mist, and, farther still up the sloping hillside, the dew-drenched
green of the mixed woodlands.
The land before him had been upturned by shallow ploughing some days
since, and it lay now pale and arid, the large clods of earth showing
the detached roots of grass and herbs, and presenting a hint of
menacing destruction rather than the prospect of the peaceful art of
cultivation. It was the boy's duty to drag the soil free from grass,
after which it would be laid out into rows some three feet apart. When
this was done two furrows would be thrown together to give what the
farmers called a "rise," the point of which would be finally levelled,
when the ground would be ready for the peanut-sowing, which was
performed entirely by hand.
The boy worked industriously through the deepening dawn, giving an
occasional "gee up, Rhody!" to the mare, and following the track of the
harrow with much the same concentration of purpose as that displayed by
his four-footed friend. He was strong for his years, lithe as a sapling,
and as fearless of elemental changes, and as he walked meditatively
across the bare field he might have suggested to an onlooker the
possible production of a vast fund of energy.
Presently the gray light was shot with gold and a streak of orange
fluttered like a ribbon in the east. In a moment a violet cloud floated
above the distant hill, and as its ends curled up from the quickening
heat it showed the splendour of a crimson lining. A single ray of
sunshine, pale as a spectral finger, pointed past the woodlands to the
brook beneath the willows, and the vague blur of the mixed forest warmed
into vivid tints, changing through variations from the clear emerald of
young maples to the olive dusk of evergreens.
Last of all the ploughed field, which had preserved a neutral cast,
blushed faintly in the sunrise, glowing to pale purple tones where the
sod was newly turned. From the fugitive richness of the soil a warm
breath rose suddenly, filling the air with the genial odour of earth and
sunshine. The shining, dark coils of worms were visible like threads in
the bright brown clods.
Nicholas raised his head and stared with unseeing eyes at the gorgeous
east. A rooster crowed shrilly, and he turned in the direction of the
barnyard. Then he flicked the ropes gently and went on, his gaze on the
ground. His thoughts, which at first were fixed solely upon the teeth of
the harrow, took tumultuous flight, and he reviewed for the hundredth
time his conversation with the judge and the vast avenue of the future
which was opening before him. He would not be like his father, of this
he was convinced--his father, who was always working with nothing to
show for it--whose planting was never on time, and whose implements were
never in place. His father had never had this gnawing desire to know
things, this passionate hatred of the work which he might not neglect.
His father had never tried to beat against the barriers of his ignorance
and been driven back, and beat again and wept, and read what he couldn't
understand. The teacher at the public school had told him that he was
far ahead of his years, and yet they had taken him away when he was
doing his level best, and put him to dragging the land, and gathering
the peanuts, and carrying the truck to market, and marking the sheep
with red paint, and bringing up the cows, and doing all the odd,
innumerable jobs they could devise. He let the ropes fall for an instant
and dug his fist into his eye; then he took them up again and went on
stolidly. At last the sun came out boldly above the hill, and the
hollows were flooded with light. In the centre of the field the boy's
head glowed like some large red insect. A hawk, winging slowly above
him, looked down as if uncertain of his species, and fluttered off
indifferently.
At six o'clock his stepmother came to the back door and called him to
breakfast.
When the meal was over Amos Burr went out to the field, and Nicholas was
sent to drive the sheep to the pasture. With vigorous wavings of a piece
of brushwood, and many darts from right to left, he succeeded finally in
driving them across the road and through the gate on the opposite side,
after which he returned to assist his stepmother about the house. Not
until nine o'clock, when he had seen the Battle children going up the
road, was he free to set off at a run for Kingsborough.
As he sped breathlessly along, past the wastelands, into the woods, down
the road to the hillside, and down the hillside to the road again, he
went too rapidly for thought. The fresh air brushed his heated face
gently, and, at the edge of the wood, where the shallow puddles
lingered, myriads of blue and yellow butterflies scattered into
variegated clumps of colour at his approach, darting from the moist
heaps of last year's leaves to the shining rivulets in the wheel ruts by
the way. A partridge whistled from the yellowing green of the wheat, and
a rabbit stole noiselessly from the sassafras in the ditch and shot shy
glances of alarm; but he did not turn his head, and his hand held no
ready stone.
Though he had run half the way, when at last he reached the judge's
house, and stood before the little office in the garden where the school
was held, his courage misgave him, and he leaned, trembling, against the
arbour where a grapevine grew. The sound of voices floated out to him,
mingled with bright, girlish laughter, and, looking through the open
window, he saw the light curls of a little girl against the darker head
of a boy. He choked suddenly with shyness, and would have hesitated
there until the morning was over had not the judge's old servant, Cæsar,
espied him from the dining-room window.
"Look yer, boy, what you doin' dar?" he demanded suspiciously, and then
called to some one inside the house. "Marse George, dat ar Burr boy is
a-loungin' roun' yo' yawd."
The judge did not respond, but the tutor came to the door of the office
and intercepted the boy's retreat. He was a pale, long-faced young man
in spectacles, with weak, blue eyes and a short, thin moustache. His
name was Graves, and he regarded what he called the judge's "quixotism"
with condescending good-nature.
"Is that you, Nicholas Burr?" he asked in a slightly supercilious voice.
"The judge has told me about you. So you won't be a farmer, eh? And you
won't stay in your class? Well, come in and we'll see what we can make
of you."
Nicholas followed him into the room and sat down at one of the pine
desks, while the judge's son, Tom, nodded to him from across the room,
and Bernard Battle grinned over his shoulder at his sister Eugenia, and
a handsome boy, called Dudley Webb, made a face which convulsed little
Sally Burwell, who hid her merriment in her curls. There were several
other children in the room, but Nicholas did not see them distinctly.
Something had got before his eyes and there was a lump in his throat. He
sat rigidly in his seat, his straw hat, with the shoestring around the
crown, lying upon the desk before him. He looked neither to the right
nor to the left, keeping his frightened gaze upon the tutor's face.
Mr. Graves asked him a few questions, which he could not answer, and
then, giving him a book, turned to the other children. As the lessons
went on it seemed to Nicholas that he had never known anything in his
life; that he should never know anything; and that he should always
remain the most ignorant person on earth--unless that lot fell to Sairy
Jane.
The difficulties besetting the path of knowledge appeared to be
insurmountable. Even if he had the books and the time he could never
learn anything--his head would prevent it.
"Bound Beloochistan, Tom," said the tutor, and Tom, a stout, fair-haired
boy with a heavy face, went through the process to the satisfaction of
Mr. Graves and to the amazement of Nicholas.
The office was a plain, square room, containing, besides the desks and
tables, an old secretary and a corner cupboard of an antique pattern,
which held an odd assortment of cracked china and chemist bottles. There
was also a square mahogany chest, called the wine-cellar, which had been
sent from the dining-room when the last bottle of Tokay was opened to
drink the health of the Confederacy.
Before the war the place had been used by the judge as a general
business room, but when the slaves were freed and there were fewer
servants it was found to be little needed, and was finally given over
entirely to the children's school.
When recess came the tutor left the office, telling Nicholas that he
might go home with the little girls if he liked. "I shall try to have
the books you need by to-morrow," he said, and, his natural amiability
overcoming his assumed superciliousness, he added pleasantly:
"I shouldn't mind being backward at first. The boys are older than you,
but you'll soon catch up."
He went out, and Nicholas had started towards the door, when Tom Bassett
flung himself before him, swinging skilfully over an intervening table.
"Hold up, carrot-head," he said. "Let's have a look at you. Are all
heads afire where you come from?"
"He's Amos Burr's boy," explained Bernard Battle with a grin. "He lives
'long our road. I saw him hoeing potatoes day before yesterday. He's got
freckles enough to tan a sheepskin!"
In the midst of the laugh which followed Nicholas stood awkwardly,
shifting his bare feet. His face was scarlet, and he fingered in
desperation the ragged brim of his hat.
"I reckon they're my freckles," he said doggedly.
"And I reckon you can keep 'em," retorted Bernard, mimicking his tone.
"We ain't going to steal 'em. I say, Eugie, here're some freckles for
sale!"
The dark little girl, who was putting up her books in one corner,
looked up and shook her head.
"Let me alone!" she replied shortly, and returned to her work, tugging
at the straps with both hands. Dudley Webb--a handsome, upright boy,
well dressed in a dark suit and linen shirt--lounged over as he munched
a sandwich.
He looked at Nicholas from head to foot, and his gaze was returned with
stolid defiance. Nicholas did not flinch, but for the first time he felt
ashamed of his ugliness, of his coarse clothes, of his briar-scratched
legs, of his freckles, and of the unalterable colour of his hair. He
wished with all his heart that he were safely in the field with his
father, driving the one-horse harrow across upturned furrows. He didn't
want to learn anything any more. He wanted only to get away.
"He's common," said Dudley at last, throwing a crust of bread through
the open window. "He's as common as--as dirt. I heard mother say so--"
"Father says he's _un_common," returned Tom doubtfully, turning his
honest eyes on Nicholas again. "He told Mr. Graves that he was a most
uncommon boy."
"Oh, well, you can play with him if you like," rejoined Dudley
resolutely, "but I shan't. He's old Amos Burr's son, anyway, who never
wore a whole shirt in his life."
"He had on one yesterday," said Bernard Battle impartially. "I saw it.
It was just made and hadn't been washed."
Nicholas looked up stubbornly. "You let my father alone!" he exclaimed,
spurred by the desire to resent something and finding it easier to
fight for another than himself. "You let my father alone, or I'll make
you!"
"I'd like to see you!" retorted Dudley wrathfully, and Nicholas had
squared up for the first blow, when before his swimming gaze a defender
intervened.
"You jest let him alone!" cried a voice, and the flutter of a blue
cotton skirt divided Dudley from his adversary. "You jest let him alone.
If you call him common I'll hit you, an'--an' you can't hit me back!"
"Eugie, you ought to be--" began Bernard, but she pushed the combatants
aside with decisive thrusts of her sunburned little hand, and planted
herself upon the threshold, her large, black eyes glowing like shaded
lamps.
"He wan't doin' nothin' to you, and you jest let him be. He's goin' to
tote my books home, an' you shan't touch him. I reckon I know what's
common as well as you do--an' he ain't--he ain't common."
Then she caught Nicholas's arm and marched off like a dispensing
providence with a vassal in tow. Nicholas followed obediently. He was
sufficiently cowed into non-resistance, and he felt a wholesome awe of
his defender, albeit he wished that it had been a boy like himself
instead of a slip of a girl with short skirts and a sunbonnet. At the
bottom of his heart there existed an instinctive contempt of the sex
which Eugenia represented, developed by the fact that it was not force
but
|
black eyes, frank
and sincere, that look you full in the face. His dark heavy moustache
can not hide his dazzlingly white teeth. He has many friends. No one
can help loving that warm and sympathetic heart, always ready for any
sacrifice to love or friendship. His manly strength would lead one to
doubt the almost womanly tenderness and delicacy of sentiment which
seem to be the foundation of his character. Admitted to the bar when
very young, he has since lived quietly on a small income, inherited
from his father, collecting material for a work on comparative
legislation, which he hopes to publish some of these days.
Each year he travels two or three months, usually afoot, studying the
manners and customs of different countries. Two years ago, he traveled
in this way through Italy. Perhaps next year he may go to England.
Up to the year 1872, his life was as calm as a lake in Scotland on a
Summer evening. His mother's second marriage took place at this time,
and ever since his friends had noticed a great change in him. He became
still more absorbed in his studies; became silent and almost morose.
Then another change was noticed in him; his gaiety seemed to return.
But suddenly, one morning, he left Paris and established himself at
Canet, a pretty little fishing village, which lies stretched out
sleepily like a great lizard, basking in the sun, on the shore of the
Mediterranean.
When he had returned from his morning's ride with Odette, he sat down
to his work by the open window. He heard from time to time the heavy
waves breaking against the rocks below. He was gazing out of the window
at the glorious panorama of water and clouds, when he heard a knock at
the door. He called out, "Come in," without turning his head. The door
opened with a creak, and some one entered.
"It is I, my dear fellow! Of course, you did not expect to see me; but
I wished to have a little talk with you."
At the sound of this voice, Paul turned around quickly, and with
evident astonishment:
"You? Can it be you--here?"
"Yes; here I am, returning from Italy with your mother. I did not want
to pass so near you without dropping in to see you."
He was a man about forty years old, very tall, broad-shouldered, and
strikingly handsome. His hair, slightly gray, covered only the back and
sides of his head. He was elegantly but very simply dressed--the ribbon
of the Legion of Honor at his button-hole.
Claude Sirvin, in 1876, was at the height of his fame and renown. Life
had only caresses to offer him. When very young, he won the great
"prix de Rome" by his "Death of Beaurepaire." As usual, wealth and
honor accompanied success, and he stepped at once to the front rank
among artists. He was a man of the world at the same time, and allowed
himself to be made love to by the dozens of pretty little fools who are
always ready to throw themselves at the head of any celebrated man.
Having always plenty of money at his command, he lived the life of a
prince, spending freely and enjoying life to the utmost. But he always
kept his glowing, devoted passion for his art free from the least stain
or impurity. It was his religion, his faith, his God. He was admitted
to the Institute in 1873. A few months later, a rumor arose that Claude
was Claude no longer--Claude was going to be married; then that Claude
was married.
At first, no one would believe the absurd report. Every one added his
witticism, to the effect that it was impossible. What would become
of all the forsaken Ariadnes? Then arose a story that he had married
a Russian princess, with eleven millions in her own right. (No one
knew why she always had exactly eleven millions.) Then, another story
was heard, that he had married a little actress out of the "Comédie
Française." When the truth first came out, his friends were dumb with
astonishment. They learned that Claude had married a Creole widow,
of small fortune and exquisite beauty. Elaine was a very cultivated,
refined woman, and she fascinated Claude by her gentle, womanly
dignity.
Paul offered an easy chair to his step-father, and sat down facing him.
"Well, my dear Paul, you are still the same. You can not conceal your
thought that my visit is a disagreeable surprise to you."
"Sir!"
"Never mind--I am not annoyed; but we must have an important
conversation together--may be a long one. You were studying as I came
in. Can you give me your attention for an hour or two?"
"My time is at your disposal, sir; and, since you have taken the
trouble to come and visit me, I should be very impolite if I did not
express myself as grateful for your kindness."
"Thank you, my dear Paul. I have only one request to make, and that
is, that you will give me your attention. First, I must recall the
past. In tropical countries, girls marry young. You were born when Mme.
Frager was only fifteen years old. For eighteen years, she devoted her
whole life to you. You were eighteen years old when I first saw your
mother. I was deeply interested in her from the first moment. Although
thirty-three years old, she barely appeared twenty-five. I was so
fortunate as to please her. The noble woman had brought you to manhood.
Her task might be considered as accomplished. I begged for her hand,
and she made me the happiest of mortals by granting my request. Ever
since that time, you have been opposed to me. The time has now come to
put an end to this misunderstanding. Before my marriage, I confess, my
life was not what it should have been. As you grow older, dear Paul,
you will learn that one of the first virtues in this world is charity.
I confessed my faults to your mother. She, alone, had the right to
condemn me. She forgave me, and I had the inestimable happiness of
giving my name to the one I love and reverence more than all else on
earth. I regret to awaken these painful memories, but I am coming to
our unfortunate disagreement; you have never forgiven me for marrying
your mother. I was never angry at you. Children are always more or
less selfish in their affections. You never reflected that, after
having consecrated the best years of her life to you, your mother had
the right to think at last of her own happiness. In short, you were
offended at her marriage with me, and separated yourself entirely from
us, leaving your mother, who loved you so tenderly, turning your back
on me, who was anxious to give you the affection of an older brother.
But, instead of being angry, we only respected you the more. Such pride
shows that you are warm-hearted and impulsive. You will understand
that, under ordinary circumstances, I should never have intruded upon
you; but the cause of my journey here was the anxiety aroused by your
last few letters to your mother."
Paul was listening with the greatest attention. Claude Sirvin was
speaking with all his heart in his words, and Paul could not help being
touched by them. The artist talked, as he painted, with his whole soul.
His voice was sometimes tender and sweet, then it rose to firmness,
according to the thought he was expressing. This eloquence was what
made him so dangerously fascinating to women.
He continued: "Now we come to the cause of my visit. I have spoken
of our anxiety. For some time past, your letters have been feverish,
glowing, nervous, and it is easy to guess that you are in love at last."
Paul started visibly, blushed, and then grew pale, trembling violently.
Claude gently took his hand:
"Do not say anything. Wait till I have finished. You love a young girl.
Is it not so? I was sure of it, Paul. Love, with you, is not merely a
violent caprice, as it is with some. Your heart belongs to her, once
and for all; and, that frightens you, for you say to yourself: 'I can
not marry. I am poor.' Have I not guessed aright?"
"Ah, sir," replied Paul, sadly, "every one of your words is truth. I
love a young girl, but I can not describe her--you would think me a
fool; and, then, there are no words strong enough to do her justice. It
is absurd, I know, but you understand. I met her in Paris last Winter,
at a party. And, to think that at first I did not notice her! She went
to the piano, and played some sonata or nocturne, with her soul shining
bright in her glorious eyes. I felt at once that I belonged no longer
to myself, but to that young girl, so calm, so unconscious." Paul was
completely carried away by the remembrance of that evening. He was
again under its magic spell. He continued: "After that first interview,
I was introduced to her, and seized every opportunity to be with her.
Now you know the reason of my burying myself at Canet for the Winter.
It is because she is staying hardly a mile away. You have been talking
to me in a way that has opened my heart, and I have replied with
frankness and truth."
"Thank you. That is what I expected. But, now, why are you not happy
in your love? There are two reasons; either the young lady is poor,
and you dread to offer her your small fortune, knowing that a life of
straightened circumstances is often worse than absolute poverty; or
else she is rich, and you are too proud to have her think you can be
actuated by interested motives.
"Ah! that is it? You see that our affection for you has caused us to
guess right once more. Now, what is the use of a father and mother,
except to smoothe away difficulties? What is mine is your mother's. Do
not deny it. That is law, you know. Mme. Frager was poor when she gave
me her hand, and I had the happiness of presenting her with the wealth
she was so fitted to adorn. Let me add that every year a small sum has
been set aside from our abundance, for your marriage-portion. It now
amounts to a little more than three hundred thousand francs. You know
that I can make all the money I need with my brush; so it is a mere
trifle for me. You can, you must, accept it as it is offered. Now, you
can go to your loved one, and say: 'I am no longer poor. I love you.
Will you accept my love?'"
Paul was deeply moved. This man, who had been showing him such
thoughtful tenderness, he had bitterly hated for four years, for Claude
was right; he had never forgiven him for coming between his mother and
himself. He could not speak. Tears of gratitude and joy stood in his
eyes. Claude understood his emotion, and gently pressed his hand.
"How good you are!" finally exclaimed the young man. "Not content
with surpassing every one by your genius, you have the best heart in
the world! You are right. An offer like yours should be accepted as
generously as it is made. I will not swear an eternal gratitude. It is
not necessary. You know me well enough to know that I am now bound to
you for life!"
Claude was delighted. His really kind heart was pleased with the signs
of Paul's happiness--his work; and then, he was flattered at having won
the heart of this obstinate rebel at last. Claude was accustomed to
charm every one around him, and, was he to blame if he took a certain
pride in his rôle of universal fascinator?
"And now," he continued, "will you not tell me her name?"
Paul hesitated. "Will you forgive me, if I wait until I have proposed
to her? Oh, Heavens! if she should not love me!"
Claude smiled at his step-son. He was thinking that he, too, had
known the pangs and joys of youth and love, which the first gray hair
banishes for ever! He repeated, half sadly, Metastasio's immortal
couplet:
"O jeunesse! printemps de la vie--
O printemps! jeunesse de l'année."
Then, "Now we must separate. You can go to her, and I will return to
your mother, at Hyères, and announce the success of my mission. You can
bring us her answer, and we will all come to Canet, for, of course, she
will say 'Yes!'"
So they separated with no further words. The hearts of both were too
full. To tell the truth, Claude was the happiest of the two, as, to
receive is merely a delight, while to give is the purest and sweetest
of all happiness!
CHAPTER IV.
An exquisite landscape lay before Paul as he hurried to the
villa--forests, mountains and rocks--the beautiful sea, bounding the
horizon on three sides; but he saw nothing of it. He hurried along, his
whole frame trembling with excitement. What should he say to Odette?
What would she reply? Did she love him? He did not know. He knew that
she enjoyed his society; but, what did that signify? He knew she was
proud--disdainful, even--finding it impossible to dissemble in the
least; not at all a flirt, she studiously avoided anything leading to
a declaration of love, which is the delight of most women. Therefore,
he had some slight grounds for hope; but, as he had carefully avoided
anything like love-making--knowing himself so poor--he was completely
ignorant of the state of her heart. But he worshiped her so devoutly;
his faith in her was so sublime; his love so inexpressibly tender, he
felt she must love him in return.
All this time, Corinne Descoutures had been dreaming languidly by the
open window. She was disturbed in her revery by the sound of a bell,
and glancing around, she saw Paul coming up the steps. "Oh, joy! it
is he!" But she was in despair that she was not dressed to the best
advantage. Of course, he had come to "declare his passion." She rushed
to the mirror in the hall, straightened one of her eye-brows, and,
in less than a second, was back in her arm-chair, still languidly
dreaming. As Paul came in she noticed his exceeding pallor. "What an
interesting young man! He seemed deeply agitated," she thought. In
fact, he was agitated. He wanted to see Odette, of course; and, how
could he make Mme. Descoutures understand that he wished her to go
away, and send Odette to him. Corinne opened hostilities. She leaned
her head languishingly to one side, like a sick canary, and said
plaintively: "I hope you are quite well, M. Frager."
"Very well, indeed, thank you."
Pause.
Mme. Descoutures continued still more plaintively: "You have suffered
much, have you not, dear friend?"
Second pause.
This time he did not understand her. Why should this dried-up old
woman ask him such a question as that? Corinne mistook the young man's
astonishment for emotion. She was touched, and, for the first time in
her life, spoke simply and cordially.
"Excuse me," she said, "for speaking so to you; but Odette and I
have often spoken together about you, and always with the greatest
interest--so young, so solitary, separated from your family--"
Paul thought he understood. Mme. Descoutures wished to indicate to
him that Odette was expecting some day a proposal from him; besides,
he had never mentioned his mother's second marriage to any of his
friends--always calling her Mme. Frager; so, thinking his suit
encouraged by Odette's friend, he said with sincere gratitude: "I thank
you for your great kindness, Madame. My life, indeed, has not been very
happy; but, since you give me hope--" Corinne's features had already
assumed an expression of startled modesty, like Psyche surprised by
Cupid, when the door opened, and Odette came in. "Ah! M. Frager,"
holding out her hand to him, "I am so glad to see you. I was just
wishing to give you a little errand in the village."
Corinne's first thought was a wish for Odette's total annihilation;
her second, to bless her. Of course, she interrupted them at a most
interesting crisis; but still, she could entertain Paul for a few
minutes, while Corinne could slip away, change her dress, and reappear
in all her war-paint and feathers, when they could resume their
conversation at the point where they had left off.
"I leave you with Odette; but, if you will be so kind as to wait for
me, I will soon return."
Odette and Paul were alone.
"If you will take the trouble to buy me a--"
"Forgive me for interrupting you," said Paul; "but, I am afraid I could
not pay any attention to your commission just now. I want to speak to
you on a very serious subject, and I implore you to listen to me."
She glanced at him, saw his pallor and agitation, and understood him
immediately. Her eyes looked almost contemptuous as she seemed to
think: "What a pity! Another man in love with me; and he was such a
pleasant friend!"
Paul continued: "You must have noticed the happiness it has always
given me to be with you. Family reasons have prevented my explaining
myself before; now, they are at an end, and I come to you boldly, to
say I love you."
She sat quietly opposite him, playing carelessly with the fringe of the
parasol in her hand.
Paul continued passionately: "I adore the very trifles you have
touched. Believe me, this has been in my mind from the first hour I
ever saw you. I address myself to you, rather than to your father, as I
know your choice will have his approval."
Odette leaned back in her chair, crossed her hands on her lap, and,
in a calm tone, with a slight, contemptuous inflection, said: "Your
proposal is a great compliment, sir. As such, I thank you, as I thank
all who come to me on the same errand. But I must reply as I have
replied to those who have done me so much honor: I do not wish to
marry."
There was no chance to mistake her calm, convincing reply. Paul saw his
hopes utterly annihilated. His fall was the more complete, as he had
felt himself encouraged in his pursuit since he had entered the house.
A wild despair shone from his eyes. He started up, and, in a voice
whose mortal anguish would have softened the hardest heart, exclaimed:
"Ah! that is what you have said to all the others! but no one ever
loved you as I love! When a man marries, he offers his wife the
battered remains of a heart that has been dragged through all kinds of
filth! But I, long before I met you, knew that I could never love but
once in my life; and, when I saw you, I felt that here was the woman
to whom my life, my thoughts, my soul, belonged! When I was unhappy,
my consolation was, 'She will love me some day.' When I was happy,
I thought, 'What a pity she does not love me yet!' and joy turned to
sadness. If I were to tell you all the absurdities I have committed,
merely to be with you! The morning you were reading in the garden, I
was hidden behind the rock against which you were leaning. The evening
you walked alone on the sea-shore, I was close by you. At night, I
watched your window; and you tell me what you tell your other lovers!
What have they ever done? Some of them have married since then, as if
they could forget you. But I--I am yours for life and death--yours,
whether you want me or not; bound to you by my love, by my will, and by
my passion."
As he spoke, Odette sat up, listening, full of pity for his sorrow
and suffering. He was right. He deserved something more than the
careless reply she usually made. She looked at him with inexpressible
tenderness, her dark eyes moist with tears.
"You love me. I believe you sincerely. You are wounded, and I am very
sorry. Forgive me for being the cause of your suffering. I assure you
that I never dreamed of anything like this; otherwise, I should not
have allowed you to cherish a love that I could never return. I beg
your pardon for the grief I have caused you; but I can never be your
wife, because I do not love you."
At these words, Paul felt his strength leaving him. He sank into a
chair, and, burying his face in his hands, he wept. This proud, strong
man wept in his despair like a little child. Tears were falling from
Odette's eyes as she sought to take his hand. He pushed her away.
Raising his head, he said with the composure of utter hopelessness:
"Forgive me. I have not shed tears for many years. You do not love me.
I shall die. With me, my heart is my life, and I know death will soon
relieve me from my suffering. I endured agonies when my mother married
a second time, four years ago. I left her. I became nearly insane
with jealous grief. I hated my step-father until an hour ago; but he
then removed the obstacles to my confession of love to you. I forgot
everything in my gratitude, because my love for you is stronger than my
love for my mother; and, now, you escape from me. You see that I can
not help dying of grief."
Odette's heart was bleeding at his supreme despair. Suddenly she raised
her head, with a gesture of sudden resolution. "Dear friend," she said,
"I will make you a confession. It wounds me to the soul to make it; but
you must be cured of your unfortunate passion, and the only way is to
show that I am unworthy of it."
She was shuddering and pale. "I do not marry you, because I can not. If
I had only known this before! You are too late. I have loved another,
insanely, passionately as you love me. For a whole month I lived on
his words, his glances; and, if he had opened his arms, I should have
fallen into them."
Odette stood before him, red with shame, yet proudly laying bare
her heart to cure her friend, at the expense of untold suffering to
herself. She continued: "The very words he let fall were of inspired
eloquence. He had all combined that could fascinate a woman; fame,
genius, and beauty. My punishment for having given my heart unsought
is, that now I can not love you--for, I might have loved you. I now
lose you forever; but I have at least cured you of loving one so
unworthy."
"You, unworthy of me!" cried Paul, no longer able to restrain his
passion. "You have loved another; but, what is there to blame in that?
You have not fallen in the least from your pedestal. Do you think that,
because you have met and admired some man of genius, your life must be
blasted ever after; that you can never have a home, with children of
your own? Let me have the hope of some day replacing him in your heart!"
Odette thanked him through her falling tears for his noble answer to
her confession; but replied, "Alas, it is impossible. No man can ever
forgive his wife her love for another."
"What do I care if I am the second in your heart? I will surround you
with such divine tenderness, such glowing passion, that you can not
help loving me."
Odette's firmness returned. She was on the point of saying No, when
Paul interrupted her.
"You would be so happy with me. My family would worship you almost as I
do. You know how I love my mother. She is beautiful, good, and the most
cultivated woman I ever knew. I have never spoken of my step-father,
because--because until to-day I had the greatest dislike for him. But
I always acknowledged his great genius. You have admired his paintings
a hundred times--Claude Sirvin. My family, you see, is worthy of even
you."
Paul stopped, startled at Odette's sudden pallor. If a bomb-shell had
exploded at her feet, it would not have shocked her as did this name of
Claude Sirvin. Her teeth chattered. The young man cried:
"My God! Odette! what is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing; a dizziness merely." Her will-power was very strong,
evidently, as she regained self-possession almost immediately, and,
smiling faintly: "You see, it is nothing!" And, as he was about to
speak, she said: "If you will leave me alone three minutes, I will give
you my final answer. Go down to the foot of the garden, and back."
"And you will tell me----?"
She smiled and pointed to the door. Hardly had he disappeared, when her
features became gloomy, and the line in her forehead deepened. "I, the
daughter-in-law of Claude Sirvin!" then started as if frightened at
the sound of her own voice. She seemed torn by conflicting emotions.
Suddenly, as if to put an end to her indecision, she sprang to the door
and ran after Paul. "Paul," she almost screamed to him. The young man
was slowly returning up the garden walk. At the sound of her voice, he
sprang to her. Odette grasped his hand:
"Swear that you will forget my confession."
"I solemnly swear it."
"Swear that you will never regret marrying me!"
"I solemnly swear it."
"Then you may keep my hand; it is yours."
"Odette!"
He was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, when Corinne
appeared. She had profited by her absence, and was now perfectly
resplendent! Imagine a low-necked dress, covered with ruffles--little
ones, wide ones, ruffles trimmed with fringe; ruffles trimmed with red
and yellow silk; ruffles in every direction. The dress was made short
in front so as to show the large feet, squeezed into slippers a size
too small; and showing, also, the black stockings embroidered with
gold-thread.
Odette nearly laughed outright, but leaning towards Paul, she said:
"Come back this evening." He was sorry to leave her so soon, but he
obeyed his divinity and left, without a glance at Mme. Descoutures.
"Where has M. Frager gone?" she asked, settling herself in an arm-chair.
"He has gone home."
"Gone home--just as I return!" These few words contained the very
essence of bitter disappointment. Odette in her preoccupation, did not
notice it, however, and simply asked: "Is my father in his study?"
"Yes, I believe so; but you know he does not like to be disturbed at
his work."
"Oh! he will not mind. I want to tell him something important."
"What is it?"
"That I am going to be married."
"To be married!"
"Yes; to M. Paul Frager. I have just accepted him;" and she quietly
walked off, leaving Corinne a prey to the most intense astonishment and
disappointment.
This state did not last long. It was succeeded by the most violent
anger against Odette, who had stolen her lover--for she never doubted
but that the young man had come to see her, and, during her absence,
Odette had bewitched him in some way. Medea, jealous of Creusa;
Hermione, furious at Andromache; Calypso and Eucharis; none of the
betrayed lovers of mythology or fiction hated their rivals more than
Corinne hated Odette from henceforth. Odette never suspected it. If
she had, she would not have cared. But Achilles was murdered by Paris,
the coward; and a little gnat can drive an elephant nearly distracted;
the proof of which is that the hatred of Corinne--that seemingly
inoffensive, silly and vain nonentity--was the cause of untold misery
to Odette.
CHAPTER V.
The "venerable Mme. Bricourt" is a round, plump little old woman. Her
face is so full of wrinkles that it looks like a last year's apple,
still clinging to the branch. She is an artist in her way, as she
possesses the talent of saying the cruelest things about her friends,
while apparently praising them; and more than all, shows a gentle
sympathy to them that appeals to their hearts, so that they confide all
their secrets to her.
She wished her son to marry Odette, solely because M. Laviguerie was
one of the lions of the day; and, as nothing would be refused to such a
celebrated man, member of two academies, Mme. Bricourt thought that her
son might attain to some high office as his son-in-law. At present he
is merely a civil engineer.
As to this "admirable son," he was as stupid as he was big and awkward,
which is saying a great deal. Mme. Bricourt soon recognized his lack
of refinement and intellect, and, by a stroke of genius, dubbed him
"My admirable son." This title imposed on her friends as she expected,
and, seeing its success, Amable adopted the same tone in speaking
of his mother; so that soon "the venerable Mme. Bricourt" became an
established authority on all subjects.
She was peacefully reading by the window this afternoon, when Corinne
was announced. Mme. Descoutures was looking for an ally, still furious
from her late discomfiture.
"You look as sweet as a peach, my dear child," said Mme. Bricourt,
as they kissed each other. As soon as Mme. Bricourt discovered the
faults and foibles of her friends, she knew how to play upon them as
skillfully as a gypsy on her guitar. So she was always paying Corinne
compliments on her beauty, or the wonderful amount of admiration she
received; even going so far as to call her "my dear child." Could
anything be more delicately flattering?
"What lucky chance brought you here to-day?"
"I am come to invite you to dine with us this evening."
"With the greatest pleasure."
"I hope your son will accompany you."
The face of "the venerable Mme. Bricourt" was shaded by an expression
of sad resignation.
"You know, my dear child, that my son is such an admirable worker. From
morning to night he is buried in his business, and I am afraid he will
wear himself out before long. He left this morning for Toulon, to find
an important reference in some book in the public library."
To tell the truth, Amable Bricourt had gone to Toulon to spend the day
with some friends in a billiard-saloon.
Corinne resumed: "We shall all regret his absence very much,
particularly as we are celebrating to-night the arrival of Mr.
Laviguerie's oldest daughter, as well as Odette's engagement."
"Is Odette going to be married?"
"To M. Paul Frager. It is the very latest news. Her father was just
telling me the arrangement suited him in every respect."
"It really is a very excellent match, I should say," Mme. Bricourt
continued, in her most dove-like tones. "Odette is a remarkably fine
girl. It is a great pity she has been so badly brought up. Why, my
son, of course, knows almost everything; but there are certain things
that Odette is perfectly familiar with, that I doubt if he ever heard
of. But she is pretty. I know some people say she does not know how to
dress, and that her features are not perfectly regular; but still, she
is pretty. It is not beauty. Her mouth is too large, and her ears are
not set on right; but still, she is pretty."
Imagine Corinne's delight when she saw from these remarks that Mme.
Bricourt was on her side!
"As for M. Frager," continued Mme. Bricourt, sweetly, "I do not know
him well enough to pass judgment on him. He ought to be something
remarkable, to marry the daughter of such a distinguished man as
Laviguerie. But, to tell the truth, I do not think he will turn out
well. He has no business, you know; and, when a young man has no
business--I am thinking of the way in which my admirable son passes his
time! Why does Paul Frager live alone? Why will his family have nothing
to do with him? The future alone will answer these questions, and let
us hope that they will be favorably answered."
She was interrupted by a carriage driving rapidly and noisily past. She
leaned out of the window, bowing and smiling to some one, saying: "The
pretty dear!"
"The pretty dear" was none other than Odette, driving with her father
to meet Germaine at the depot.
Odette was beaming with joy at the thought of her darling sister, so
soon to be with her. Her important interview with Paul had sobered her
for awhile; but, now, she was only thinking of how happy she was. Her
head was full of plans for the amusement of "darling Germaine," and
she chattered on to her father, the picture of hope and happiness.
Laviguerie said, "You are exquisitely lovely to-day, my child;" and,
as she said gayly, "Just wait till you have seen Germaine--she will
eclipse me and every body else!" the philosopher felt a jealous pang as
he thought, "How she worships her!"
Odette had hastened their starting to such an extent that they had now
over half an hour to wait. Her father sat down quietly in the shade
of the little white station, while Odette walked impatiently up and
down the platform, asking the men around anxiously, if the train was
not late--consulting her watch a dozen times at least, and comparing
it with the big clock over the door. Finally, she said to herself, she
would walk six times around the building, and had just accomplished the
third circuit, when she heard the shrill whistle of the locomotive. She
sprang to the edge of the platform, and looked eagerly down the track.
She saw the train far away, skirting the shore of the Mediterranean,
with its white plume of steam floating in the air. These three or four
minutes seemed an eternity. Finally, the train stopped before her, a
door opened, and a young lady stepped out, followed by her waiting-maid.
The young traveler had no time to look around her before Odette was
embracing her; they cried "Odette!" "Germaine!" and crying and laughing
at the same time, they embraced again and again. M. Laviguerie looked
on, more affected than he would have supposed possible. Germaine had
changed so completely from the delicate, nervous child he remembered.
Her black, abundant hair was drawn back from her broad, noble brow,
where purity and dignity seemed to reign. She had grown tall, was very
finely proportioned, and her large, gray eyes only added to the general
impression of sincerity and sweet refinement.
The two sisters were lost in their examination and admiration of
each other,--they paid no attention to the train steaming past, to
the baggage piled up around them, nor to M. Laviguerie standing
impatiently near them. He finally interrupted them by saying, "Isn't
it my turn now?" and as Germaine came to him, he kissed her almost
affectionately, then leading them to the carriage, he left them,
saying, "I will walk home, after sending your maid and your luggage in
the omnibus."
The sisters were alone in the carriage. They only stopped embracing
to embrace again,--they had so many years to make up! At last, Odette
said, "Dear Germaine, you are so beautiful! Your photographs never
showed the lovely soul looking out through your eyes! Oh! if you only
knew how happy I am."
And as Germaine sighed, "I know you are sad over Mme. Rozan's
death--forgive me, please, for seeming to rejoice at what is your
sorrow!"
"There is nothing to forgive
|
In its grandeur as of old;
’Tis a casket--lost, the jewel;
’Tis a mine without its gold.
Once a sunbeam at the doorway
Gilded room and gladdened hall;
Making life a golden summer,
Full of joy for each and all.
But the sunshine that has vanished
Ne’er can brighten o’er us more,
Though I bow in meek submission
Yet my heart is sad and sore.
I have lost my life’s sweet treasure,
Earth holds nothing dear for me;
“Upward, onward,” be my motto,
Onward, upward, still to thee.
Hallie! be my guarding angel,
Teach my footsteps not to stray;
Spread your sainted wings above me,
Lead me in “the narrow way,”
So that you can come and meet me--
Waft me heavenward on your breast,
“Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.”
I’ve Asked You to Forget Me.
I’ve asked you to forget me,
To let our happy past
Ne’er be recalled; for ah! it was
Too sweet, too bright! to last.
But yet you say that you’re my friend,
And still as fond and true;
While I ne’er care to see thy face,
Or have one thought of you.
Then ne’er again recall those days
When roguish Cupid played
At twining garlands ’round our hearts
Only to wilt and fade;
For I have with a steady hand,
Not heeding Love’s sweet art,
Unwound them from their resting place
And freed your faithless heart.
Little Blanche.
Gather up the broken playthings,
Scattered on the nursery floor;
Blanche is gone!--her little fingers
Ne’er will fondle with them more.
Hide away the dolls, the dishes--
Precious treasures! O! so dear!
Lay aside the little dresses--
In each fold a mother’s tear.
God hath given--God hath taken,
Though it rends the heart in twain,
He but sends his frowns upon us,
To give back his smiles again.
She hath gone to ’wait your coming,
Smiling where the angels stand;
Lingering there at heaven’s gateway,
That she first may clasp your hand.
The Little Front Gate.
Away from the world and its bustle,
When the daylight grows pleasant and late;
In our own cosy cot, I am waiting
For the slam of the little front gate.
The birds at the doorway are singing,
The roses their beauty debate;
But I sit here alone, and I listen
For the slam of the little front gate.
Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight
Send the roving bird home to its mate,
I list for a hurrying footstep,
And the slam of the little front gate.
O! you who are burdened with sorrow,
And believe that life is but fate,
Learn from me there is joy in waiting
For the slam of the little front gate.
Drifting.
Scotta, you are drifting from me,
O’er the billows of life’s tide;
You and I have sailed together,
With our frail barks side by side.
You are drifting with the current,
But my feeble oar is light,
Too light to follow; and, in anguish,
I must watch you drift from sight.
Drifting, gliding, moving onward,
Tide and sky seem one deep blue;
All in vain my eyes are yearning,
You have drifted from my view.
But there’s yet a broader current,
Where our meeting barks will land;
You and I still bound together,
Heart to heart, and hand to hand.
Looking Back.
She opened a little worn package,
Scarred yellow by Time’s ruthless hand;
Disclosing a bundle of letters
Tied up with a pale ribbon band.
“These,” she said, “are like leaves from a fernery,
Long pressed in a book with a flower;
And the memories wafted up from them,
Like perfume that follows a shower.
“With no wormwood or gall in the essence,
Few tares in life’s garden were sown;
The clouds partly hiding the sunshine,
Some weeds with the blossoms have grown.
“But we loved”--here she held out a picture;
A tear-drop was dimming her eye,
As a cloud will o’ershadow the landscape,
Or shut out a star in the sky.
I took up a ring and a locket,
Set deep with a ruby and pearl;
The clasp was all tarnished and broken,
And tear-stained the face of the girl,
Whose eyes were awake in Hope’s morning,
Love kindled their depths with his spark--
Even then, from the red velvet lining,
They glowed like a gem in the dark.
I turned to the sad little figure,
’Round the package the faded cord tied;
Pressed my lips to her cheek--ah, how sadly
The roses had bloomed there and died.
Long we sat in the lingering twilight,
Looking back o’er the vanishing years;
She sobbed out her grief on my bosom,
And moistened my brow with her tears.
What comfort in words could I offer?
There was more in a soul-telling glance;
For each heart hath its season of springtime,
Each heart hath a buried romance.
Scotta.
I Saw her last night in a vision
(How often she comes when I dream!)
Through the garden of Heaven she loitered,
Then stood by a clear, placid stream.
And out of the heart of the river
A bunch of white lilies she drew,
I scarce could discern from the blossoms
Her fingers, so waxen their hue.
But her face wore the same quiet features,
And her smile was enhancing the light
That fell on this friend of my bosom,
This angel robed softly in white.
I longed to reach upward and touch her,
To ask why the flowers she twined;
Wondered often for whom was the garland,
And the crown with the lily buds lined.
So I cried and my voice soared onward
Farther than sight could extend--
“For whom are you weaving this chaplet?
Speak, Scotta! sweet spirit and friend.”
“O! tell me just why from the portals
Of Heaven you’ve wandered away,
And sit here alone by the river
Wreathing these lilies to-day.”
Her lips parted, as if for an answer--
Then a cluster of cherubim, came--
They hovered about this sweet seraph,
And whispered in concert _a name_.
It resounded along Heaven’s archway,
But soft on my ear that word fell,
Soft as her accents of friendship,
Soft as a Sabbath eve bell.
And the dewdrops and spray of the river
On the garlands to crystals had turned,
The crown she embedded with snow-drops,
One jewel there glittered and burned.
Its luster was brilliant and sunlike,
As burnished as those in the throne,
But the name that her own gentle fingers
Had carved there, ah! me, was--_my own_.
And what if Life’s thorns pressed my temples
Or sorrow to midnight turns day,
I will press on alone through the darkness,
Believing her hand leads the way.
I will traverse the chill “Swamp of Cypress”
Where the “Rivers of Death” slowly wind;
For she’ll beckon me over with garlands,
And the crown with the lily buds lined.
The Lover and Flower.
I found it, one day, in a pretty shade
Which a vine and a maple together made;
’Twas blooming away in a dress of white,
With eyes of a blue transparent light.
I knelt at its shrine,
And this heart of mine
Drank in the fragrance as one drinks wine.
Then I said, “Sweet flower, this cooling shade
With the summer weather will dim and fade,
There’s a place in my heart--a cozy room--
Where you may nestle and grow and bloom.”
Thus I wooed the flower,
In this shady bower,
And lovers we were that self-same hour.
I carried it home, I pruned it with care,
I gave it the sun and the morning air.
The honey bees came its dew to sip,
But I drove them away with pouting lip;
For I loved my flower,
And with jealous power
I banished the bees from our curtained bower.
A butterfly came on wings of lace,
And tried to fan my blossom’s face;
But I brushed it away with cruel hands,
And tore from its wings the velvet bands;
Then I kissed my flower;
But a summer shower
Burst from the clouds with mesmeric power.
Then the pale little blossom heaved a sigh,
And opened a blue and timid eye
To thank the cloud as it did in the shade,
Which the vine and the maple together made;
But my heart would rebel;
I could not quell
Its raging fire--it seemed from hell.
I slammed the shutters with curses of doom;
I made it dark as a dungeon room,
Then I hurried away like a thief in the night;
But I strolled again in the warm sunlight,
And another flower
From Fashion’s own bower
I culled, and nursed it only an hour.
It proved but a weed with a gaudy bloom,
And a poisonous odor filled my room.
So I turned once more to my wildwood flower,
That I locked in my heart that sinful hour,
When the angel of love,
To its mansion above,
Had fluttered away like a wounded dove.
How softly I turned the key in my heart;
One moment I faltered--the door swung apart--
A faint, sweet essence, like heliotrope bloom,
Was sick’ning my senses; I moved through the room
With a staggering tread,
With a brain reeling head,
And swooned there--_a murd’rer_--my flower was--_dead_.
My Cloud--To Scotta.
There’s a cloud on my life’s horizon
Of wonderful shape and hue,
Like the feathery down of a snow-drift
’Tis dimpled with changeful blue.
I gaze on its shadowy outline
And drink in the calm of the skies,
Till I fancy it floats out of heaven,
As an angel in disguise.
No slumbering storm in its bosom,
No hint of the lightning’s glare,
Only a feast for the heart and soul
Is this treasure of the air;
For I know from its silvery edges,
And glimpses of hidden gold,
That a picture of rare tranquility
Its tender depths enfold.
Else whence is this mystic feeling
Of peace that’s stealing o’er me?
Like the magic of summer moonlight
Enchanting a restless sea.
O! heavenly cloud! why are you
So calm? so angelic you seem,
My spirit escapes in its longing--
I am lost in a beautiful dream.
Up, up on the wings of a swallow
Piercing the heaven’s deep blue,
O’er meadow and mount I am rising,
And floating, sweet spirit, to you;
Onward, in trance I am wafted,
Now into the cloudlet above;
And a face smiles out from its drapery,
And ah! ’tis a face that I love.
The Decision.
A dispute once arose in a bee-hive
As to which of the little brown bees
Could gather the sweetest nectar
From blossoms or budding trees.
The queen tried in vain to discover
Some method the riot to quell;
But a challenge for war had been sounded,
And threatened was each honey cell.
So she spoke in a voice most persuasive--
“He shall sit on my throne for an hour,
Who brings from the store-house of nature,
The juice of the sweetest-lipped flower.”
Away flew the brown little workers,
Away out of sight o’er the hill;
Then backward and forward they flitted,
The honey-cups eager to fill.
One famished the heart of a lily,
And drank from its milky bud;
One opened the vein of a rose leaf,
And licked up the crimson blood.
To a poppy-bed still one hurried,
On a downy cot he crept,
But all-day in the silken blankets,
Unconscious there he slept.
Another flew off to the meadow,
And punctured the daisy’s cap;
A swarm had encompassed a fountain,
Where gurgled the sugar-tree sap.
A fourth and a fifth to a mansion
Had followed a bridal pair;
One strangled the bud on her bosom,
One mangled the wreath on her hair.
But the sixth one paused at a cottage,
Where a sick girl sleeping lay;
And there by the open window,
Blossomed a hyacinth spray.
A youth stood near in the shadows,
And watching the dreamer’s face,
A tear rolled down from his eyelid
And fell on the hyacinth vase.
It was only the work of a moment
For a busy bee to do,
To flavor affections tear-drop
With the extract, “flower-dew.”
So he gathered this precious honey,
And, polishing up his sting,
He flitted out of the window,
With gold dust under his wing.
Such a night in the little bee-hive
Before was never known;
For the hyacinth’s rich moist pollen
Had paved the way to the throne.
Autumn.
Who is it that paints the woodlands
Like a gorgeous gown of gold;
Dropping, here and there, a ripple
Of vermilion in each fold?
Who is it that calls the robins
And the blackbirds into bands;
Pointing them with flaming fingers,
To the sunny, Southern lands?
What has scorched the tender blossoms?
In our yards they’re dying now.
Do you know who kissed the apple
Till it reddened on the bough?
Why so mute the little streamlet?
Down the hill it used to leap;
Now I faintly hear it sobbing--
Sobbing out like one in sleep.
Leaden clouds lay on the heavens,
Like a burden on the heart;
And the winds together whisper,
Sad as loved ones ere they part.
Then anon a dreamy dullness
Hovers over sky and earth;
Ah! my soul reflects the sadness,
And I seek my friendly hearth.
You who love the Indian summer,
So renowned by pen and art,
Go, and revel in the gloaming,
While so sadly pants my heart.
But I can not watch the leaflets,
On the whirlwind as they ride,
For just so a hectic river
Bore my darling from my side.
A Sister’s Love.
TO IDA.
She knelt beside her brother’s grave,
The day was near its close;
And where the cool, tall grasses wave,
She lay a fresh-cut rose.
Then, from a silver waiter near,
She drew a wreath of white,
Besprinkled with the twilight’s tear,
O’ershaded with the night,
And placed them on the green-kept mound.
I watched her kneeling there,
Her face bent on the sacred ground,
In attitude of prayer;
And while a bird sang soft his hymn,
Down-looking from above,
We saw unveiled a picture dim--
A statue true of love.
In Memory of Fannie Johnson White.
If I could blend into my verse
That soft and slumb’rous haze,
So faintly resting on the rose
Before the autumn days
Have chilled its heart, and numbed the leaves,
And drunk the precious dew,
Then could I melodize in song,
Her life so pure and true.
Or could I weave into this song
Her smile, so rich and rare,
That found its way to every heart,
And left its halo there--
Then earth would not seem desolate,
Or days be lone or long,
Since she would sweetly live again
In verse, and smile in song.
All this is vain! both pen and voice,
Too weak to speak her worth;
Though memory writes in words of gold,
Her beauteous deeds on earth.
Heaven claimed our flower--there we may bloom,
If we the watchword keep:
“Whatsoever thou shall sow,
That also thou shall reap.”
The Heliotrope’s Soliloquy.
TO MRS. T. R. WALTON.
Let others bring from foreign shore
The glittering gem, the shining ore,
Rare trophies from the coral caves,
And hidden wealth of ocean waves,
To grace the bridal hall.
You floral queens! You roses white!
Bathed in the moonbeam’s yellow light,
You’ll smile in many a quaint design,
And help the banquet room to line--
But not the diadem.
My starry flowers--this purple heath--
She’ll gather for that trailing wreath;
For my faint breath of rare perfume
Is only for the bridal room--
The bride--the bridal crown.
To watch with me her trembling sigh,
The golden pansy’s modest eye
Shall only glance from out my bower,
With me proclaim the nuptial hour,
And seal the holy bond.
A Problem.
My heart is perplexed, though I’ve tried to discover
An answer to solve what it is that I miss,
Though I’ve questioned myself more that twenty times over,
There seems no reply to a question like this.
My friends meet me gladly with words kindly spoken,
Salutations of praises and sometimes a kiss,
And looks sent along with a sweet flower token.
I find in my room--there is something I miss.
The blaze up the chimney this evening is talking,
The wind and the shutter hum sad an old tune,
A cloud o’er the heavens is leisurely walking,
A few early snowflakes are vexing the moon.
Pale Luna! your countenance seemeth too sober,
But why should I murmur or wonder at this?
The flame of the woodland died out with October,
The birds, too, are gone--there is something I miss.
I stir down the embers, and here in the firelight
I read the home paper a late train has brought,
And into the lives of the absent an insight
I take; do they ever of me have a thought?
How strange the words sound when no answer is given,
Ah! the tone of a friend would to-night insure bliss,
And the faces of loved ones would seem like a heaven
Of angels, alas! there is something I miss.
Will it always be thus? Is this one missing measure
To cripple my verse and sadden my song?
What a joy it is to regain a lost treasure
And in the heart’s casket the setting make strong.
But I have grown weary these figures of trying;
I wonder if others make failures like this?
A smile? Ah, you solved then the truth underlying
This problem, and _know_ what it is that I miss.
MADISONVILLE, KY.
My Palace.
I built me a little palace,
Somewhere in the ether land,
Wherein my soul might revel
And rest at my command.
The spot, a royal summit,
I let my will select,
And Fancy came inspecting
With Thought, the architect.
We went down to the quarry
For the foundation rock,
And purchased hewn and polished
Love’s marble corner block.
For years we toiled together,
And one day warm and sweet
I woke and found my palace
Before me and complete.
It was a gorgeous building--
The window lights of red
Came from the sunset’s furnace,
Or Northern light instead.
Each peak, each tower and turret
The sunlight’s love had won,
And straight there came a voice
From heaven and said “well done.”
I planted a grove beyond it,
And hedged up the terraced yard,
And I dug a groove so a brooklet
Could play on the level sward.
I wanted a flower to cheer me,
And off on a breezy slope
I scattered the seed of roses
And the purple heliotrope.
I peopled the rooms with volumes
Of men with talents rare,
Who climbed upon Fame’s spire
And waved their banners there.
I purchased the costliest paintings,
And swung them from the walls;
And music, like harps of heaven,
Resounded throughout the halls.
I gave a royal banquet,
The nuptial feast was spread,
And then, when all was ready,
There Love and I were wed.
But when the guests departed,
A rap came on the door,
And a gaunt figure faced me
I ne’er had seen before.
“My name,” she said, “is Envy;
I wish to stop with you;
Your dwelling just completed,
The inmates must be few.”
Her breath, like fumes of sulphur,
Into my face was blown,
And like a demon’s curses
Was her departing tone.
The night came on, and fingers
Tapped on the beveled glass,
A face looked in the window
With eyes that shone like brass;
But Love beheld the visage,
And o’er the window drew
A shade that shut Suspicion
Forever from my view.
And then a pond’rous knocking
Bombarded at the door,
And like an earthquake’s tremor
Upheaved the palace floor.
I glanced into the key-hole,
And, like the brand of Cain,
I saw on Slander’s forehead
A dark and bloody stain.
I barred the palace entrance,
And turning in the hall
We faced another figure
More dreadful than them all;
He said: “My name is Ruin--
Unbidden here I stand,
To curse your happy homestead
And desolate your land.
“The lichen I have sprinkled
Upon your crumbling tower,
The ivy and the myrtle
Shall choke each blooming flower.”
And then he smote the castle,
It trembled to its base,
And fell? No, no--I shouted
And laughed out in his face:
“You can not wreck our palace,
Love is the corner stone,
And we are master workmen,”
I said, in jocund tone.
He seized his trailing garments,
Departed with a groan,
And love and I together
Were once more left alone.
Next day as they debated
What course to next pursue,
I heard a sweet voice calling--
Love said the tone he knew.
The step, low as a mother’s
Upon the nursery floor,
Was like advancing music
That halted at our door.
As when a fairy’s castle
Yields to a magic key,
Our door swung on the hinges
The guest was--_Sympathy_.
“Come in, our worthy sister,”
I heard Love then repeat;
“For happiness without you
Could never be complete.”
And while we sat together,
Weaving our garland sweet,
For many a bridal altar,
For many a burial sheet,
We heard another footstep;
And, like an angel sent,
There came and smiled upon us
The face we loved--_Content_.
The circle was completed--
My palace stands sublime
Still on that cloudland summit,
And laughs at threats of Time.
No curses thunder o’er us,
No heavy rains can fall;
For heaven’s open window
Slants sunshine over all.
Death of Summer.
Summer’s dying, close the shutters,
Make the light subdued and sweet,
The last accent that she utters
I’ll record here at her feet.
See, the pulses quiver faintly,
But her heart, alas! ’tis still;
See how pale she lies and saintly,
Feel her hands, they’re white and chill.
Close the eyes made sad from weeping,
Smooth the tangles from her head,
Leave her like an angel sleeping,
Friends are here to view the dead.
See, the rose a tear is dropping
As she leans above her face,
At the door the lily stopping,
Finds her handkerchief of lace.
There the two like sisters sorrow,
As above the corse they bend,
Planning for the sad to-morrow--
For the burial of a friend.
Then the daisy from the mountain,
That in mourning shawl was dressed,
Brought a snowdrow from the fountain,
Lay it on the summer’s breast.
To the pillow crept the lilacs,
But the flowers at her throat
Were the heliotrope and smilax--
This was gained by casting vote--
And the jasmine sought her fingers,
While the fuschias kissed her hair;
At her lip a violet lingers
To deny them, who would dare?
Then the autumn’s sunny treasure
Came the sturdy golden rod,
For the coffin took the measure,
For the grave removed the sod.
Long and mournful the procession
That I watched across the hill,
For to you I’ll make confession,
Autumn doth my spirit kill.
Drives me from the scene of sadness
While on poison nature feeds;
Decks her out in robes of gladness
To conceal the heart that bleeds;
At the summer’s grave there lingers
None more sad to drop a tear
Than the friend whose trembling fingers
Write this in memoriam here.
Spring and Summer.
I heard a footstep on the hill,
The little brook began to trill,
I looked--a sweet and childlike face,
Reflected like a blooming vase,
Was smiling from the water clear,
With buttercups behind her ear.
A flock of swallows hove in sight,
On came the summer clad in white,
With sunshine falling from her hair
Upon her shoulders white and bare,
And pressing through the tangled grass,
A daisy rose to watch her pass.
Under the Snow.
What have you hidden down under the snow,
So dear that you weep when the northern blasts blow?
Why your face pressed to the cold window pane,
Longing to mingle your tears with the rain--
Is there something down under the snow?
Is it only a blossom, a summer’s delight,
That is freezing and dying this cold, bitter night?
That is only a fancy, the floweret is warm,
And the drift has enfolded it safe from the storm--
Is there something yet under the snow?
Something near to the heart down under the snow,
That has robbed the wan cheek of its once carmine glow,
That has stolen the beam of the eye--tears instead
Bespeak how in anguish the sore heart hath bled
For a little child under the snow.
For a dear little prattler that littered the floor,
And laughed as he tumbled your work o’er and o’er
For a little gold head that made sunny the room,
Now bright’ning the darkness and chill of the tomb,
That is dreaming out under the snow.
Only resting awhile in garments all white,
Away from the blackness and sin of to-night;
Away from the vice and the wrong of the street,
Not heeding the song of the rain or the sleet,
Still sleeping down under the snow.
How many a mother her darling would lay
In the last, narrow home--hide her treasure away--
If only to know its soul was at rest
With an innocent heart in an innocent breast,
Far, far down under the snow!
The Prettiest Girl in Town.
Have you e’er seen her, this beautiful girl
With that classical head and complexion of pearl?
So pale and enchanting that sometimes I deem
Her a sweet revelation as when in a dream,
Through wild variations of trouble and fear,
You suddenly feel that an angel is near.
Now guess, if you can, without half of that frown,
For to me she’s the prettiest girl in the town.
The poets all sing of these quaint Highland girls
With enchanting dimples and loose tangled curls;
Or they weave a love-tale from her budding lip’s glow
While chasing the reindeer o’er mountains of snow;
This is only the skill of a well tinctured pen,
Dipped in Romance’s cup for the praises of men,
Who value this maid in the coarse homespun gown
Something less than the prettiest girl in the town.
You must all have watched the calm light of her eyes,
And ethereal figure with heavy drawn sighs;
Pondered often in secret of some magic gift
To win you this face--so like a snowdrift--
I would whisper a secret: On Valentine’s day,
With Cupid commune in a sly, cunning way,
Else only in dreams she is thine; for a crown
Could not purchase the prettiest girl in the town.
I am Musing To-Night.
I am musing to-night in the fire-light’s glow,
And watching the pictures that come and go;
Like dissolving views on a magic screen
Is the witchery of this changing scene;
Though half I’m dreaming, though half awake,
I fear to move lest the spell I break,
Lest my fairy castles will break and fall,
And down will tumble each beautiful wall.
Thus still in a stupor I sit and gaze
At the glowing embers and wanton blaze;
I am smiling at Fancy; she tries in vain
To lure me along with the mad’ning train
That follow her footsteps--that to her cling,
As flowers that garland the steps of spring;
In moody silence I sit apart,
Till memory conquers my sullen heart.
Sweet Memory! sprite of my golden past!
Your tinseled veil o’er me is cast;
Subdued I yield like one enchained,
And yet my freedom is only feigned;
Back through the aisles of years that are gone,
A willing captive you lead me on,
Where I gleaned unbidden the joys of youth
While the world was blossoming with love and truth.
Before my heart could interpret a sigh,
Or a tear-drop’s shadow creep into my eye,
Ere I’d missed from the circle of friendship’s chain
The link once lost that we ne’er regain,
The future to me was a vast expanse,
Its depth I could solve at a single glance,
Knew not of the troubles that torture the soul
Hidden away in its sober fold.
Yet, to-night, as I dream in the gathering gloom,
Only friends that are dear softly enter my room,
Those who gladdened my life in its season of pain,
Like a gleam of the sunshine along with the rain;
These, _these_ are the guests that encircle my hearth,
Who come gliding like spirits back to the earth.
What communion we hold only those ever know
Who sit musing alone in the fire-light’s glow.
A Curl.
To-night, as I turned back the pages
Of a book Time had fingered before,
And whose leaves held the odor of ages,
And the imprints of much usage wore,
A little brown curl I discovered,
That fell from the book to the floor.
Had I sinned? Heaven grant me its pardon.
Did a lover’s sad tear the page spot?
Who pressed there that gem of the garden--
The sweet flower, “forget-me-not?”
It lay as if carved on a grave-stone,
And all of its sweetness forgot.
I held the curl up to the lamplight,
And watching the gleam of its gold,
There I heard with the rush of the midnight,
A sad little story it told;
But I promised the sacred old volume
Its secret I would not unfold.
But I would that the world knew its sorrow,
The story I must not reveal;
But go to your book case to-morrow.
And each to your own heart appeal;
And you’ll know why the tattered old volume
The little curl tries to conceal.
Somebody’s Face.
TO M. A. B.
The blossoms are gone from the garden,
But ’tis not of them I would speak;
I want a sweet rose for my verses
Like one that’s in somebody’s cheek.
A red rose to kiss and to fondle,
Whose leaves will not wither or die--
To gladden each moment and banish
The winter thoughts out of the sky.
I want a low ripple of music
To flow through these lines of my choice,
Like a zephyr that moved through the summer,
Now dwelling in somebody’s voice;
A song that will be full of fragrance
So sweet that its magic of words
Will bring back the balm of the June time,
Its memories glad, and the birds.
The skies are so sunless and dreary,
Unless I can find a deep blue
To mix with the clouds of November
They’ll still wear the dark, sober hue;
But memory shows a bright heaven
Reflected in somebody’s eye,
And, thinking to-day of its beauty,
The grey becomes blue in the sky.
My dear little friend of the summer,
Did you think in the meshes of song
Your sweet, rosy face would be tangled
By a memory cunning and strong?
That the eyes looking now on this pattern
Would find it so easy to trace?
And delight as I do in its beauty--
The beauty of somebody’s face?
Good-bye, Maggie.
Good-bye, Maggie, I must leave you,
Far away from you I roam,
Far away from friends and loved ones,
And your pretty cottage home.
O’er my soul a twilight gathers,
That is deep’ning into night,
But from out the shadowy distance
Shines a soft, familiar light.
It is memory’s beacon lantern,
O’er it arching is your name;
Round it recollections cluster,
As the moth about the flame.
Though the future tries to cheat us,
Throwing many miles between,
Brighter burns the little taper
As the distance intervenes.
Good-bye, Maggie, will you miss me?
Absence conquers many a heart,
Plucks the roses from the garland,
Tears the evergreen apart;
Enters at the open lattice,
As a guest unbidden not,
Draws the curtain o’er the window,
Writes upon the door--“Forgot.”
Oh! what mean these idle sayings,
And whence come these idle fears?
As I fold you to my bosom
On my face I feel your tears;
Tears--they are a silent language
That interpret best the heart,
And I love you for them, darling--
Good-bye, Maggie, we must part.
The Hermit’s Farewell.
Farewell, that sad and bitter word
It stirs my soul to-night,
As I sit crouching in my cave
Above the faggot’s light;
Strange, ghostly figures dance and flit
Along the cold, damp walls;
The black snake glares his drowsy eyes,
And from his dungeon crawls.
The toad croaks near my humble fire,
Is loth to hop away,
And knows that ne’er again for him
Will I in ambush lay;
The bats flit idly to and fro,
The mice romp through my cell,
And e’en the wind that moans without
Repeats that word--farewell.
I move, and think ’tis some weird dream
Then mutter “’tis my brain;”
For here around my throbbing brow
Seems clamped a heavy chain,
And like a prisoner doomed to die
To-morrow at the stake,
I count the hours as they fly,
And dread the morning’s break.
For friends will come to lead me forth,
Through frescoed hall and room,
To homes where kindred ties await;
I fear the her
|
aver and cloth dresser--two trades now distinct but
then practised in common--who took his week's work on ass-back, on roads
little better than bridle-paths, to the Sunday market in Leeds. He was
of a class characteristic of the district.
These hand-loom weavers, who lived in the hill country lying to the west
of Leeds, were generally men of small capitals; they often annexed a
small farm to their business, or possessed a field or two on which to
support a horse and cow, and were for the most part blessed with the
comforts without the superfluities of life. During five or six days of
the week they dwelt in their own little village, among trees and fields,
taking no thought of the outside world and contenting themselves with
the homely gossip of their farmstead or hamlet. On market day they came
into the town in shoals, clad in their quaint corduroy breeches,
broad-brimmed hats, and brass-buttoned coats of antique cut, bringing
their produce on pack-horses, to await the visits of the merchants--the
commercial aristocracy of Leeds, then a town of some 16,000 or 17,000
inhabitants--who were the agents through which the outer world received
its supply of Yorkshire woollen goods. They were a shrewd, careful race,
somewhat stolid and slow of speech and not given to great mental
briskness or activity, keenly appreciative of the blessings of liberty
and usually in sympathy with the political party to whom the cause of
liberty was for the moment entrusted; sober, godly souls for the most
part; regular in their attendance at public worship, and upon the whole
preferring the plebeian zeal of the Chapel to the aristocratic repose of
the Church.[2]
[Illustration: BIRTHPLACE OF PRIESTLEY.]
And what a world it was in which they thus serenely dwelt apart.
"It was," writes Madame Belloc, "the time of Louis the Fifteenth in
France and of George the Second in England, and the nephews and nieces
of Charlotte Princess Palatine were still living, and her letters,
whose name is legion, yet lay stored in the cabinets of her
correspondents, full of inexpressible details discussed in most
expressive language. It was the time when Jeanie Deans walked from
Scotland to beg her sister's life of Queen Caroline, and met Madge
Wildfire in the way. It was the time when the polite world was
composed of'men, women and Herveys'; when Squire Pendarves was found
dead in his bed in Greek Street, Soho, leaving his young widow to be
courted by John Wesley and wedded by Dr Delany; when statesmen bribed,
and young blades drank, and Sir Harbottle carried off Harriet Byron,
whose shrieks brought Sir Charles Grandison to the rescue, sword in
hand. It was the period when the Jacobite Rebellion flamed up and
expired; when the Young Pretender marched to Derby and the heads of
the decapitated lords were exposed on Temple Bar; tragedies, agonies,
highway robberies, Dick Turpin, Jack Sheppard, smugglers, the
press-gang; Frederick Prince of Wales quarrelling in Leicester Square;
Queen Caroline on her death-bed telling her weeping little George,
'que l'un n'empêche pas l'autre'; Horace Walpole making the grand
tour; Dean Swift dying in agonised misery. Merciful Heavens! What an
England, of which we possess the daily diary! We can see Hogarth at
his easel, and Sir Joshua taking his first stiff portraits, and
Garrick going on pilgrimage to Stratford, and the young king courting
Hannah Lightfoot and marrying his little bride from Mecklenburg.
Without too much verifying of dates it is certain that all this was
happening before Dr Priestley was thirty years of age, and that of
none of it is there the faintest mention in the account he has drawn
up of his own childhood, youth and young manhood, though he was
himself destined to be one of the principal illustrations of the
Georgian era. For anything which appears to the contrary, he and his
friends might have dwelt in some far-distant planet whose inhabitants
were wholly given up to study and to prayer."
Priestley says of his father that he had a strong sense of religion,
praying with his family morning and evening, and carefully teaching his
children and servants the Assembly's Catechism, which was all the system
of which he had any knowledge.
"In the latter part of his life he became very fond of Mr Whitfield's
writings and other works of a similar kind, having been brought up in
the principles of Calvinism, and adopting them, but without ever
giving much attention to matters of speculation, and entertaining no
bigoted aversion to those who differed from him on the subject."
We may well imagine that Jonas, with his "strong sense of religion," was
one of that earnest band of "several hundreds of plain people" who
listened, spellbound, to the eloquence of John Wesley on that memorable
day of May 1742, on which, on Birstall Hill, began the great Yorkshire
"Revival."
Of his wife, "a woman of exemplary piety," the mother of the future
philosopher, little has been recorded beyond the fragmentary notice in
her son's autobiography. He says of her:--
"It is but little that I can recollect of my mother. I remember,
however, that she was careful to teach me the Assembly's Catechism,
and to give me the best instructions the little time that I was at
home. Once in particular, when I was playing with a pin, she asked me
where I got it; and on telling her that I found it at my uncle's, who
lived very near to my father, and where I had been playing with my
cousins, she made me carry it back again; no doubt to impress my mind,
as it could not fail to do, with a clear idea of the distinction of
property and of the importance of attending to it. She died in the
hard winter of 1739,[3] not long after being delivered of my youngest
brother; and having dreamed a little before her death that she was in
a delightful place, which she particularly described and imagined to
be heaven, the last words which she spake, as my aunt informed me,
were, 'Let me go to that fine place.'"
During some considerable portion of his mother's short period of married
life, Joseph Priestley, together with his brother Timothy, was committed
to the care of his grandfather Swift, with whom he remained with little
interruption until his mother's death. From this we may infer that the
domestic circumstances of his parents were far from easy, or that the
accommodation at Fieldhead was unequal to the support of the
cloth-dresser's rapidly-increasing family.
Timothy, who, after following his father's business as a cloth-dresser
for a time, became an Independent minister, and died in London, has left
us reminiscences of his brother's boyhood. He seems to have been
particularly impressed with his ability to repeat the Assembly's
Catechism "without missing a word," and by being made to kneel down with
him while he prayed. "This was not at bed-time, which he never
neglected, but in the course of the day."
On the death of his mother, the eldest boy, then barely six years old,
was taken home and sent to school in the neighbourhood. Luckily for him,
his Aunt Sarah, Mrs Keighley, "a truly pious and excellent woman, who
knew no other use of wealth, or of talents of any kind, than to do good,
and who never spared herself for this purpose," being childless,
offered, in 1742, to relieve her brother Jonas of all care for his
eldest son by taking entire charge of him. "From this time," says her
nephew, "she was truly a parent to me, till her death in 1764."
John Keighley was a man of considerable property, and at his death,
which occurred when Priestley was about twelve years of age, the widow
was left with the greater part of his fortune for life, and much of it
at her disposal after her death.
By Mrs Keighley's direction he was sent, he tells us, to several schools
in the neighbourhood, especially to a large free school under the care
of a clergyman, Mr Hague, under whom, at the age of twelve or thirteen,
he first began to make progress in Latin and acquired the elements of
Greek. His brother Timothy records that "from eleven to about thirteen
he had read most of Mr Bunyan's works and other authors on religion,
besides the common Latin authors."
How a well-ordered school was conducted in the middle of the eighteenth
century may be gleaned from the following regulations in force in Mr
Canton's well-known academy in 1745:--
1. That the School hours are from 7 o'clock in the morning till 12,
and from 2 to 5 in the afternoon: except the winter half-year, when
they begin at 8 in the morning.
2. That all the Scholars come decently, that is, with their Hands and
Faces wash'd, their Hair or Perriwigs Comb'd, and their Shoes black'd.
3. That they bow at Coming in and going out, and when any Thing is
given or rec'd; and never wear their Hats in the House or School.
4. That they loiter not, but go immediately to their own seats and
move not thence, without Leave, till School is done.
5. That if any Person come into the School whom they know, they are to
get up, make a bow, and sit down in their places again.
6. That if the Master be discoursing with, or reading to any Person,
they shall not stare Confidently on them or hearken to their Talk,
unless required to be present.
7. That they shall not interrupt the Master while a Stranger is
talking with him, with any Question, request, or complaint whatsoever,
but stay till he is at Leisure.
8. That they shall not presume to talk loud nor make any noise in
getting their lessons. A Boy's Tongue should never be heard, but in
saying his Lesson, asking or Answering a Question.
9. That there be no buying, selling, changing, laying Wagers or Gaming
in School-time, on the forfeiture of the whole so bought or sold, etc.
10. That those who learn French shall not speak English to any that
learn French, on the Forfeiture of ye Bill, or one Hour's Exercize
after School Time.
11. That such as learn Latin are also oblig'd not to speak other
Language to those that learn it, during School time, on the Penalty
last mentioned.
12. That all perform their Lessons and Exercises in fair Writing and
true Spelling, and likewise prepare themselves for their Examinations
in French, Latin, Accounts and Catechisms every week, both in School
times and all Vacations.
13. That such as perform well, shall be prefer'd according to their
Merit, and shall have liberty to leave School before the usual Time;
but such as are Negligent herein, shall have their Exercizes to write
over again after School.
14. That none presume to call any Party or Nick-names nor give any ill
or reproachful Language, much less Curse, Sware, or Lye, but in all
things behave in a quiet, peaceable, and civil manner.
15. That the Boarders shall not go beyond y^e bounds belonging to y^e
House on any pretence whatsoever without leave, on the forfeiture of
6d. or two Hours' Exercize after School for Every such Offence.
16. That one Scholar is not to strike another, or challenge him to
fight; but in case of any Difference shall acquaint the Master
therewith and be satisfied with his Determination.
Whilst acquiring Greek at the public school, Priestley learned Hebrew on
holidays of the Dissenting minister of the place, Mr Kirkby, under whose
care he eventually came.
The weakly, consumptive habit into which he now fell necessitated his
withdrawal from school. His fondness for books had led his aunt to
encourage the hope that he might be trained for the ministry, and he
readily entered into her views.
"But," he says, "my ill health obliged me to turn my thoughts another
way, and, with a view to trade, I learned the modern languages,
French, Italian and High Dutch [German], without a master; and in the
first and last of them I translated and wrote letters for an uncle of
mine who was a merchant, and who intended to put me into a
counting-house in Lisbon."
Indeed, he says a house was actually engaged to receive him there, and
everything was nearly ready for his undertaking the voyage when his
health so far improved that the idea of the ministry was resumed. During
the two years in which he had been kept away from school the boy was
thrown almost entirely upon his own resources. It says much for the
activity and eagerness of his mind, his diligence and his power of
mental acquisitiveness, that he should have neglected no opportunity of
gaining knowledge from the various heretical divines who came to drink a
dish of tea with his aunt. He tells us that from Mr Haggerstone, a
Dissenting minister in the neighbourhood, who had been educated under
Maclaurin, and whom he visited twice a week, he learned geometry,
algebra and various branches of mathematics, theoretical and practical.
He also read, with but little assistance from him, Gravesend's _Elements
of Natural Philosophy_, Watts's _Logic_, and Locke's _Essay on the Human
Understanding_. "He also gave lessons in Hebrew to a Baptist minister at
Gildersome, a village about four miles from Leeds, and by that means
made himself 'a considerable proficient in that language.'" "At the same
time I learned Chaldee and Syriac, and just began to read Arabic."
As his knowledge increased, and the powers of his intellect
strengthened, he began to exercise his reason upon the many problems of
doctrine and religious belief which could not fail to be uppermost in
his mind when his upbringing and the environment in which circumstances
had placed him are considered. His aunt, although a strict Calvinist,
was a large-minded woman, and, as her nephew says, "far from confining
salvation to those who thought as she did on religious subjects."
"Her home," he says, "was the resort of all the dissenting ministers
in the neighbourhood, without distinction, and those who were the most
obnoxious, on account of their heresy, were almost as welcome to her,
if she thought them honest and good men (which she was not unwilling
to do), as any others."
Although all the religious books that came in his way tended to confirm
him in the principles of Calvinism, he was led by the natural vigour of
his mind, and by an innate spirit of philosophical optimism, which
strengthened with advancing years, to feel a repugnance to its gloomy
tenets, and to question the sufficiency and reasonableness of much of
its doctrine. The conversation of the heretical divines in whose company
he was thrown served, moreover, to awaken inquiry and to increase his
doubts. These divines were for the most part men who, in liberality of
thought, were far in advance of the congregations they served, and this
was especially the case of those for whose attainments and character the
discerning boy had most respect.
The youth, who as a child had lisped at his mother's knee, "without
missing a word," the formularies of the Assembly's Catechism, was now
tortured with doubt and misgiving as he strove to penetrate into and to
realise the meaning of the phrases his memory so tenaciously retained.
And the more he read and the more he pondered the more disquieted he
became.
"Having," he says, "read many books of _experiences_, and, in
consequence, believing that a _new birth_, produced by the immediate
agency of the Spirit of God, was necessary to salvation, and not being
able to satisfy myself that I _had_ experienced anything of the kind,
I felt occasionally such distress of mind as it is not in my power to
describe, and which I still look back upon with horror.
Notwithstanding I had nothing very material to reproach myself with, I
often concluded that God had forsaken me, and that mine was like the
case of Francis Spira, to whom, as he imagined, repentance and
salvation were denied. In that state of mind I remember reading the
account of the man in the iron cage in the _Pilgrim's Progress_ with
the greatest perturbation."
"I imagine," he continues, "that even these conflicts of mind were not
without their use, as they led me to think habitually of God and a
future state. And though my feelings were then, no doubt, too full of
terror, what remained of them was a deep reverence for divine things,
and in time a pleasing satisfaction which can never be effaced, and I
hope was strengthened as I have advanced in life and acquired more
rational notions of religion. The remembrance, however, of what I
sometimes felt in that state of ignorance and darkness gives me a
peculiar sense of the value of rational principles of religion, and of
which I can give but an imperfect description to others."
At the time he was greatly distressed that he could not feel a proper
repentance for the sin of Adam, taking it for granted, he says, that
without _this_ it could not be forgiven him. The fact was that, under
the influence of his friends, Haggerstone and Walker, he was insensibly
following Baxter in attempting to reconcile the doctrines of Arminius
and Calvin, and he ended by embracing those of Arminius. It was
repugnant to his sense of equity and justice that, in the words of his
Catechism, "All mankind, by the fall of our first parents, lost
communion with God, are under his wrath and curse, and so made liable to
all miseries in this life, to death itself, and to the pains of hell for
ever."
His first trial of faith came when he applied for admission as a
communicant in the congregation which he had always attended. The old
minister was willing enough to receive him, but the elders, who had the
government of the church, discovering this unsoundness on the subject of
the sin of Adam, stoutly refused to sanction his admission.
Whilst the taint of heresy appears not to have greatly distressed the
worthy Mrs Keighley, it doubtless added to her difficulties in shaping
his course towards the ministry. In the natural order of things he was
to have been sent to the academy at Mile End, a hot-bed of Calvinism,
then under the care of Dr Cawder.
"But," he says, "being at that time an Arminian, I resolutely opposed
it, especially upon finding that if I went thither, besides giving an
_experience_, I must subscribe my assent to ten printed articles of
the strictest Calvinistic faith, and repeat it every six months."
It now looked as if the idea of the ministry was to be given up for good
and all, and given up it probably would have been but for the
intercession of Mr Kirkby, who strongly recommended that he should be
placed under the care of the good and learned Dr Doddridge.
"Mr Kirby," says Priestley, "had received a good education himself,
was a good classical scholar, and had no opinion of the mode of
education among the very orthodox Dissenters, and being fond of me, he
was desirous of my having every advantage that could be procured for
me. My good aunt, not being a bigoted Calvinist, entered into his
views."
Priestley had another ally in his step-mother, for his father had
married again. She was a woman of good sense as well as of religion, and
had been sometime housekeeper to Dr Doddridge, of whom she had a high
opinion, and had always recommended his academy.
To Dr Doddridge, however, he was not destined to go. That eminent divine
was in the last stages of the malady to which he eventually succumbed,
and he died at Lisbon in the October of 1751.
CHAPTER II
Enters the Daventry Academy to be trained for the Ministry--Goes to
Needham Market--His Life, Work and Privations there.
Accordingly, in 1752, he was sent to Daventry, then under the charge of
Mr Ashworth. He was now nineteen. Although of a weakly constitution, his
health was sufficiently re-established to enable him to stand the strain
of preparation for the calling to which he now assiduously devoted
himself. In mental equipments he was so much in advance of his fellows
that he was excused all the studies of the first year and a great part
of those of the second. He remained at the Academy three years.
No student ever dwelt more fondly on the memory of his _Alma Mater_ than
did Priestley on Daventry and all that it meant to him. Its atmosphere
was wholly congenial to him, steadying, stimulating and strengthening
the naturally vigorous powers of his mind. It was, he says, peculiarly
favourable to the serious pursuit of truth, and every question of much
importance, such as liberty and necessity, the sleep of the soul, and
all the articles of theological orthodoxy and heresy were the subjects
of continual discussion between the teachers and the taught. The general
plan of studies was exceedingly favourable to free inquiry: the students
were referred to authors on both sides of every question and were
required to give an account of them, abridging the more important for
future use.
Concerning this small seminary for the training of Dissenting ministers,
the Rev. Mr Hargrove in his account of Priestley in the _Inquirer_ of
1904, says:[4]--
"A miserable little place it must have seemed to the eyes of
neighbouring clergy, with nothing in it of the venerable traditions,
the ancestral wealth, the beauty and the dignity of the old colleges
at Oxford and Cambridge. There was nothing grand about this building,
nor did any sacred associations hallow its homeliness. But while the
lamp of learning burnt low in the ancient universities during the
eighteenth century, their gates kept fast closed against all who were
too intelligent not to doubt the doctrines of the Established Church,
or too honest to conceal their doubts, it burnt bright and clear, tiny
though the flame might be, in obscure and poor haunts like this of
Daventry. As Priestley proudly, and not untruly, boasted, at a later
time, to the Prime Minister of England:
"'Shutting the doors of the universities against us, and keeping the
means of learning to yourselves, you may think to keep us in ignorance
and so less capable to give you disturbance. But though ignominiously
and unjustly excluded from the seats of learning, and driven to the
expedient of providing at a great expense for scientific education
among ourselves, we have had this advantage, that our institutions,
being formed in a more enlightened age, are more liberal and therefore
better calculated to answer the purpose of a truly liberal education.
Thus while your universities resemble pools of stagnant water secured
by dams and mounds, ours are like rivers which, taking their natural
course, fertilise a whole country.'"
The manner in which he occupied his time, the range of his studies, and
the miscellaneous nature of his reading at Daventry, may be seen from
his following extract from his journal for 1755:--
BUSINESS DONE IN JANUARY, FEBRUARY AND MARCH
_Practical_
Howe's Blessedness of the Righteous; Bennel's Pastoral Care; Norris's
Letters and Some Sermons.
_Controversial_
Taylor on Atonement; Hampton's Answer; Sherlock's Discourse, vol. i.;
Christianity not founded in Argument; Doddridge's Answer; Warburton's
Divine Legation; Benson on the First Planting of Christianity; King's
Constitution of the Primitive Church.
_Classics_
Josephus, vol. i. from p. 39 to 770; Ovid's Metamorphoses, to p. 139;
Tacitus's History, Life of Agricola, and Manners of the Germans.
_Scriptures_
John the Evangelist; The Acts of the Apostles; The Epistles to the
Romans, Galatians, Ephesians; 1 and 2 Corinthians, in Greek; Isaiah to
the 8th chapter, in Hebrew.
_Mathematics_
Maclaurin's Algebra, to part ii.
_Entertaining_
Irene; Prince Arthur; Ecclesiastical Characters; Dryden's Fables;
Peruvian Tales; Voyage round the World; Oriental Tales; Massey's
Travels; Life of Hai Ebn Yokdam; History of Abdallah.
_Composition_
A Sermon on the Wisdom of God; An Oration on the Means of Virtue; 1st
vol. of the Institutes of Natural and Revealed Religion.
With one of his classmates he engaged to rise early and so "dispatched
many articles of business every day. One of them, which continued all
the time we were at the academy, was to read every day ten folio pages
in some Greek author, and generally a Greek play in the course of the
week besides. By this means we became very well acquainted with that
language and with the most valuable authors in it.... My attention was
always more drawn to mathematical and philosophical studies than his
was."
Throughout the whole of his time at the academy, and despite the
attractions which scholarship and literary studies had for him, and
notwithstanding his eagerness to satisfy "the immense range of his
curiosity in all things, physical, moral or social," he never, he says,
lost sight of the great object of his studies, which was the duties of a
Christian minister.
"There it was that I laid the general plan which I have executed
since. Particularly I there composed the first copy of my _Institutes
of Natural and Revealed Religion_, Mr Clark, to whom I communicated my
scheme, carefully perusing every section of it and talking over the
subject of it with me."
What three years of this mental, moral and intellectual discipline meant
to the young Arminian may be summed up in his own words: he saw reason
to embrace what he says is usually called the heterodox side of almost
every question. And this notwithstanding that Dr Ashworth was earnestly
desirous of making him as orthodox as possible.
"Notwithstanding the great freedom of our speculations and debates,
the extreme of heresy among us was Arianism; and all of us, I believe,
left the academy with a belief, more or less qualified, of the
doctrine of _atonement_."
Priestley, even at this early stage in his career, gave abundant proof
of that resolute regard for truth which constituted the motive power of
his life. His sturdy independence of thought, and his almost passionate
resentment of dogmatic authority--among the most significant of his
intellectual traits--were plainly manifested in his youth and early
manhood. They continued to the end to be the dominant notes of his
character and to be the springs of his action. They were at once the
sources of his strength and the causes of his misfortunes.
Priestley had now finished with Daventry. He was twenty-two years of
age, and ready, and indeed eager, to minister in all the glory of a
full-bottomed wig to any congregation that might solicit his services.
The young divines at the academy were an unworldly set, taking but
little thought of their future situations in life. They often, indeed,
amused themselves, as Priestley tells us, with the idea of their
dispersion in all parts of the kingdom, after living so happily
together, and with the _camaraderie_ of youth used to propose plans of
meeting at certain times, and smile at the different appearances they
would probably make after being ten or twenty years settled in the
world.
Priestley set out on his career with the highest ideal of his calling;
indeed to him the office of a Christian minister was the most honourable
of any on earth, and he had no other ambition than to distinguish
himself by his application to the studies proper to that profession.
That he laboured unselfishly and with no idea of place and preferment is
certain from the circumstance that he suffered from a physical
disability which he must have recognised could not but tell strongly
against his chance of worldly success. He had an inveterate stammer
which, at times, made preaching as irksome to him as it was trying to
those who had to listen to him. In spite of many and repeated attempts
he never wholly overcame this trial. And yet nothing is more
characteristic of him than, as he reviewed his career in the evening of
his life, he should see that, like St Paul's thorn in the flesh, his
impediment had not been without its use.
"Without some such check as this," he says, "I might have been
disputatious in company, or might have been seduced by the love of
popular applause as a preacher; whereas, my conversation and my
delivery in the pulpit having nothing in them that was generally
striking, I hope I have been more attentive to qualifications of a
superior kind."
The thorn in the flesh was probably not without its use in other ways.
It probably drove him to literature. If he had none of the graces of
pulpit oratory, he had at least the gift of facile composition. If he
could not hope to move men's minds by oral appeals, he might aspire to
sway them by the power of the pen.
His first call came from an inconsiderable congregation at Needham
Market in Suffolk. It was a poor and needy place, nominally under the
charge of a superannuated minister, the prospects bounded by the
possibilities attaching to a stipend of forty pounds a year. And these
prospects, limited as they were, were still further curtailed by
Priestley's own action. He found that his congregation had been used to
receive assistance from both Presbyterian and Independent funds.
Priestley was no longer in the mood to receive assistance from the
Independents, and told his congregation that he "did not choose to have
anything to do" with that body. That little difference between the
elders and himself concerning the sin of Adam and its consequence,
together with his three years' sojourn at Daventry, were beginning to
bear fruit. The congregation readily consented to give up the
Independent fund and promised to make good the deficiency themselves.
Priestley, however, quickly realised that they deceived themselves
either as to their ability or their willingness to redeem this promise,
for the most, he says, he ever received from them was in the proportion
of about thirty pounds per annum. They also deceived him in another
sense. Their readiness in consenting to do without the assistance of the
Independents disposed him to think "they could not have much bigotry
among them." Although he made it a rule to introduce nothing in the
pulpit that could, or should, lead to controversy, he made no secret of
his real opinions in conversation, or in his lectures on the theory of
religion which he had composed at the academy and which he proceeded to
give to all persons, without distinction of sex or age, who chose to
come and listen to him. He then found that when he came to treat of the
Unity of God merely as an article of religion his hearers were attentive
to nothing but the soundness of his faith in the doctrine of the
Trinity, and they quickly discovered, what he was at no pains to
conceal, that he was a very pronounced Arian. From the time of this
discovery, he says, his hearers fell off apace, especially as the old
minister, as might have been expected, took a decided part against him.
To add to his difficulties his aunt stopped his remittances. This was in
part due to the ill offices of his orthodox, _i.e._, Independent,
relations, but mainly because the worthy Mrs Keighley had largely
exhausted her liberality in supporting others of her needy dependants,
and in particular a deformed niece, her constant companion, and who
could not, Priestley thinks, have subsisted without the greatest part,
at least, of all she had to bequeath. He himself was the first to
recognise that, being apparently settled in the world, he ought to be no
longer burdensome to her. She had spared no expense in his education,
and that, he says, was doing more for him than giving him an estate.
Whatever the world might have thought as to his being settled in it, it
had little to offer him beyond the dignity of his profession, and it is
difficult to live on dignity alone. The respectable and agreeable
families in the place, to whom he had flattered himself he would be
useful, were not very prompt to support that dignity, and eventually it
had to sustain itself on the wages of an agricultural labourer. Indeed,
he says, had it not been for the good offices of Dr Benson and Dr
Kippis, eminent eighteenth century divines, who procured him "now and
then an extraordinary five pounds from different charities," he believed
he should have starved.[5]
"At Needham" he says, "I felt the effect of a low, despised situation,
together with that arising from the want of popular talents. There
were several vacancies in congregations in that neighbourhood where my
sentiments would have been no objection to me, but I was never thought
of. Even my next neighbour, whose sentiments were as free as my own,
and known to be so, declined making exchanges with me, which, when I
left that part of the country, he acknowledged was not owing to any
dislike his people had to me as heretical, but for other reasons, the
more genteel part of his hearers always absenting themselves when they
heard I was to preach for him. But visiting that country some years
afterwards, when I had raised myself to some degree of notice in the
world, and being invited to preach in that very pulpit, the same
people crowded to hear me, though my elocution was not much improved,
and they professed to admire one of the same discourses they had
formerly despised."
The iron would have entered the soul of a weaker man, but Priestley,
true to himself, never lost hope or faltered in his courage. However
short his commons, Providence had endowed him with the continual feast
of a contented mind. He firmly believed, even during the darkest hours
of that Suffolk time, that this same wise Providence was disposing
everything for the best. Notwithstanding his unfavourable circumstances,
"I was," he says, "far from being unhappy at Needham." He boarded with a
family for whose kindness he was always grateful. He had free access to
one or two private libraries in the district, in particular one
belonging to Mr Alexander, a Quaker.
"Here it was," he says, "that I was first acquainted with any person
of that persuasion; and I must acknowledge my obligation to many of
them in every future stage of my life. I have met with the noblest
instances of liberality of sentiment and the truest generosity among
them."
There can be little doubt, however, in spite of his robust optimism and
the courage with which he confronted the world, the young divine led a
cheerless and solitary existence at Needham. And it is no less certain
that it was during this dark and troubled time that he sowed the
seed--the wheat and the tares--which in the fulness of time was to
furnish the harvest of good and evil he eventually garnered--fame,
obloquy, insult, persecution, respect, affection and his position among
the immortals.
Although the account which Priestley has left us of his life and work at
Needham is somewhat meagre, it is sufficiently full to enable us to
trace in it the initial stages of his evolution as a theological
think
|
I am
afraid as death of him. He ought to be sent off, I think. He is just
as liable as not to kill us all, or burn the barn, or poison the
dogs. He has been worrying even the poor minister to death, and he
laid up with the rheumatism, too! Did you notice that he was too
sick to preach last Sunday? But don't stand there in the cold,--come
in. Yensen isn't here, but he just went over to Sorenson's for the
mail; he won't be gone long. Walk right in the other room and sit
down."
Canute followed her, looking steadily in front of him and not
noticing Lena as he passed her. But Lena's vanity would not allow
him to pass unmolested. She took the wet sheet she was wringing out
and cracked him across the face with it, and ran giggling to the
other side of the room. The blow stung his cheeks and the soapy
water flew in his eyes, and he involuntarily began rubbing them with
his hands. Lena giggled with delight at his discomfiture, and the
wrath in Canute's face grew blacker than ever. A big man humiliated
is vastly more undignified than a little one. He forgot the sting of
his face in the bitter consciousness that he had made a fool of
himself. He stumbled blindly into the living room, knocking his head
against the door jamb because he forgot to stoop. He dropped into a
chair behind the stove, thrusting his big feet back helplessly on
either side of him.
Ole was a long time in coming, and Canute sat there, still and
silent, with his hands clenched on his knees, and the skin of his
face seemed to have shriveled up into little wrinkles that trembled
when he lowered his brows. His life had been one long lethargy of
solitude and alcohol, but now he was awakening, and it was as when
the dumb stagnant heat of summer breaks out into thunder.
When Ole came staggering in, heavy with liquor, Canute rose at once.
"Yensen," he said quietly, "I have come to see if you will let me
marry your daughter today."
"Today!" gasped Ole.
"Yes, I will not wait until tomorrow. I am tired of living alone."
Ole braced his staggering knees against the bedstead, and stammered
eloquently: "Do you think I will marry my daughter to a drunkard? a
man who drinks raw alcohol? a man who sleeps with rattle snakes? Get
out of my house or I will kick you out for your impudence." And Ole
began looking anxiously for his feet.
Canute answered not a word, but he put on his hat and went out into
the kitchen. He went up to Lena and said without looking at her,
"Get your things on and come with me!"
The tones of his voice startled her, and she said angrily, dropping
the soap, "Are you drunk?"
"If you do not come with me, I will take you,--you had better come,"
said Canute quietly.
She lifted a sheet to strike him, but he caught her arm roughly and
wrenched the sheet from her. He turned to the wall and took down a
hood and shawl that hung there, and began wrapping her up. Lena
scratched and fought like a wild thing. Ole stood in the door,
cursing, and Mary howled and screeched at the top of her voice. As
for Canute, he lifted the girl in his arms and went out of the
house. She kicked and struggled, but the helpless wailing of Mary
and Ole soon died away in the distance, and her face was held down
tightly on Canute's shoulder so that she could not see whither he
was taking her. She was conscious only of the north wind whistling
in her ears, and of rapid steady motion and of a great breast that
heaved beneath her in quick, irregular breaths. The harder she
struggled the tighter those iron arms that had held the heels of
horses crushed about her, until she felt as if they would crush the
breath from her, and lay still with fear. Canute was striding across
the level fields at a pace at which man never went before, drawing
the stinging north wind into his lungs in great gulps. He walked
with his eyes half closed and looking straight in front of him, only
lowering them when he bent his head to blow away the snow flakes
that settled on her hair. So it was that Canute took her to his
home, even as his bearded barbarian ancestors took the fair
frivolous women of the South in their hairy arms and bore them down
to their war ships. For ever and anon the soul becomes weary of the
conventions that are not of it, and with a single stroke shatters
the civilized lies with which it is unable to cope, and the strong
arm reaches out and takes by force what it cannot win by cunning.
When Canute reached his shanty he placed the girl upon a chair,
where she sat sobbing. He stayed only a few minutes. He filled the
stove with wood and lit the lamp, drank a huge swallow of alcohol
and put the bottle in his pocket. He paused a moment, staring
heavily at the weeping girl, then he went off and locked the door
and disappeared in the gathering gloom of the night.
Wrapped in flannels and soaked with turpentine, the little Norwegian
preacher sat reading his Bible, when he heard a thundering knock at
his door, and Canute entered, covered with snow and with his beard
frozen fast to his coat.
"Come in, Canute, you must be frozen," said the little man, shoving
a chair towards his visitor.
Canute remained standing with his hat on and said quietly, "I want
you to come over to my house tonight to marry me to Lena Yensen."
"Have you got a license, Canute?"
"No, I don't want a license. I want to be married."
"But I can't marry you without a license, man. It would not be
legal."
A dangerous light came in the big Norwegian's eye. "I want you to
come over to my house to marry me to Lena Yensen."
"No, I can't, it would kill an ox to go out in a storm like this,
and my rheumatism is bad tonight."
"Then if you will not go I must take you," said Canute with a sigh.
He took down the preacher's bearskin coat and bade him put it on
while he hitched up his buggy. He went out and closed the door
softly after him. Presently he returned and found the frightened
minister crouching before the fire with his coat lying beside him.
Canute helped him put it on and gently wrapped his head in his big
muffler. Then he picked him up and carried him out and placed him in
his buggy. As he tucked the buffalo robes around him he said: "Your
horse is old, he might flounder or lose his way in this storm. I
will lead him."
The minister took the reins feebly in his hands and sat shivering
with the cold. Sometimes when there was a lull in the wind, he could
see the horse struggling through the snow with the man plodding
steadily beside him. Again the blowing snow would hide them from him
altogether. He had no idea where they were or what direction they
were going. He felt as though he were being whirled away in the
heart of the storm, and he said all the prayers he knew. But at last
the long four miles were over, and Canute set him down in the snow
while he unlocked the door. He saw the bride sitting by the fire
with her eyes red and swollen as though she had been weeping. Canute
placed a huge chair for him, and said roughly,--
"Warm yourself."
Lena began to cry and moan afresh, begging the minister to take her
home. He looked helplessly at Canute. Canute said simply,--
"If you are warm now, you can marry us."
"My daughter, do you take this step of your own free will?" asked
the minister in a trembling voice.
"No sir, I don't, and it is disgraceful he should force me into it!
I won't marry him."
"Then, Canute, I cannot marry you," said the minister, standing as
straight as his rheumatic limbs would let him.
"Are you ready to marry us now, sir?" said Canute, laying one iron
hand on his stooped shoulder. The little preacher was a good man,
but like most men of weak body he was a coward and had a horror of
physical suffering, although he had known so much of it. So with
many qualms of conscience he began to repeat the marriage service.
Lena sat sullenly in her chair, staring at the fire. Canute stood
beside her, listening with his head bent reverently and his hands
folded on his breast. When the little man had prayed and said amen,
Canute began bundling him up again.
"I will take you home, now," he said as he carried him out and
placed him in his buggy, and started off with him through the fury
of the storm, floundering among the snow drifts that brought even
the giant himself to his knees.
After she was left alone, Lena soon ceased weeping. She was not of a
particularly sensitive temperament, and had little pride beyond that
of vanity. After the first bitter anger wore itself out, she felt
nothing more than a healthy sense of humiliation and defeat. She had
no inclination to run away, for she was married now, and in her eyes
that was final and all rebellion was useless. She knew nothing about
a license, but she knew that a preacher married folks. She consoled
herself by thinking that she had always intended to marry Canute
some day, any way.
She grew tired of crying and looking into the fire, so she got up
and began to look about her. She had heard queer tales about the
inside of Canute's shanty, and her curiosity soon got the better of
her rage. One of the first things she noticed was the new black suit
of clothes hanging on the wall. She was dull, but it did not take a
vain woman long to interpret anything so decidedly flattering, and
she was pleased in spite of herself. As she looked through the
cupboard, the general air of neglect and discomfort made her pity
the man who lived there.
"Poor fellow, no wonder he wants to get married to get somebody to
wash up his dishes. Batchin's pretty hard on a man."
It is easy to pity when once one's vanity has been tickled. She
looked at the window sill and gave a little shudder and wondered if
the man were crazy. Then she sat down again and sat a long time
wondering what her Dick and Ole would do.
"It is queer Dick didn't come right over after me. He surely came,
for he would have left town before the storm began and he might just
as well come right on as go back. If he'd hurried he would have
gotten here before the preacher came. I suppose he was afraid to
come, for he knew Canuteson could pound him to jelly, the coward!"
Her eyes flashed angrily.
The weary hours wore on and Lena began to grow horribly lonesome. It
was an uncanny night and this was an uncanny place to be in. She
could hear the coyotes howling hungrily a little way from the cabin,
and more terrible still were all the unknown noises of the storm.
She remembered the tales they told of the big log overhead and she
was afraid of those snaky things on the window sills. She remembered
the man who had been killed in the draw, and she wondered what she
would do if she saw crazy Lou's white face glaring into the window.
The rattling of the door became unbearable, she thought the latch
must be loose and took the lamp to look at it. Then for the first
time she saw the ugly brown snake skins whose death rattle sounded
every time the wind jarred the door.
"Canute, Canute!" she screamed in terror.
Outside the door she heard a heavy sound as of a big dog getting up
and shaking himself. The door opened and Canute stood before her,
white as a snow drift.
"What is it?" he asked kindly.
"I am cold," she faltered.
He went out and got an armful of wood and a basket of cobs and
filled the stove. Then he went out and lay in the snow before the
door. Presently he heard her calling again.
"What is it?" he said, sitting up.
"I'm so lonesome, I'm afraid to stay in here all alone."
"I will go over and get your mother." And he got up.
"She won't come."
"I'll bring her," said Canute grimly.
"No, no. I don't want her, she will scold all the time."
"Well, I will bring your father."
She spoke again and it seemed as though her mouth was close up to
the key-hole. She spoke lower than he had ever heard her speak
before, so low that he had to put his ear up to the lock to hear
her.
"I don't want him either, Canute,--I'd rather have you."
For a moment she heard no noise at all, then something like a groan.
With a cry of fear she opened the door, and saw Canute stretched in
the snow at her feet, his face in his hands, sobbing on the door
step.
_Overland Monthly_, January 1896
_Eric Hermannson's Soul_
I.
It was a great night at the Lone Star schoolhouse--a night when the
Spirit was present with power and when God was very near to man. So
it seemed to Asa Skinner, servant of God and Free Gospeller. The
schoolhouse was crowded with the saved and sanctified, robust men
and women, trembling and quailing before the power of some
mysterious psychic force. Here and there among this cowering,
sweating multitude crouched some poor wretch who had felt the pangs
of an awakened conscience, but had not yet experienced that complete
divestment of reason, that frenzy born of a convulsion of the mind,
which, in the parlance of the Free Gospellers, is termed "the
Light." On the floor, before the mourners' bench, lay the
unconscious figure of a man in whom outraged nature had sought her
last resort. This "trance" state is the highest evidence of grace
among the Free Gospellers, and indicates a close walking with God.
Before the desk stood Asa Skinner, shouting of the mercy and
vengeance of God, and in his eyes shone a terrible earnestness, an
almost prophetic flame. Asa was a converted train gambler who used
to run between Omaha and Denver. He was a man made for the extremes
of life; from the most debauched of men he had become the most
ascetic. His was a bestial face, a face that bore the stamp of
Nature's eternal injustice. The forehead was low, projecting over
the eyes, and the sandy hair was plastered down over it and then
brushed back at an abrupt right angle. The chin was heavy, the
nostrils were low and wide, and the lower lip hung loosely except in
his moments of spasmodic earnestness, when it shut like a steel
trap. Yet about those coarse features there were deep, rugged
furrows, the scars of many a hand-to-hand struggle with the weakness
of the flesh, and about that drooping lip were sharp, strenuous
lines that had conquered it and taught it to pray. Over those seamed
cheeks there was a certain pallor, a grayness caught from many a
vigil. It was as though, after Nature had done her worst with that
face, some fine chisel had gone over it, chastening and almost
transfiguring it. To-night, as his muscles twitched with emotion,
and the perspiration dropped from his hair and chin, there was a
certain convincing power in the man. For Asa Skinner was a man
possessed of a belief, of that sentiment of the sublime before which
all inequalities are leveled, that transport of conviction which
seems superior to all laws of condition, under which debauchees have
become martyrs; which made a tinker an artist and a camel-driver the
founder of an empire. This was with Asa Skinner to-night, as he
stood proclaiming the vengeance of God.
It might have occurred to an impartial observer that Asa Skinner's
God was indeed a vengeful God if he could reserve vengeance for
those of his creatures who were packed into the Lone Star
schoolhouse that night. Poor exiles of all nations; men from the
south and the north, peasants from almost every country of Europe,
most of them from the mountainous, night-bound coast of Norway.
Honest men for the most part, but men with whom the world had dealt
hardly; the failures of all countries, men sobered by toil and
saddened by exile, who had been driven to fight for the dominion of
an untoward soil, to sow where others should gather, the
advance-guard of a mighty civilization to be.
Never had Asa Skinner spoken more earnestly than now. He felt that
the Lord had this night a special work for him to do. To-night Eric
Hermannson, the wildest lad on all the Divide, sat in his audience
with a fiddle on his knee, just as he had dropped in on his way to
play for some dance. The violin is an object of particular
abhorrence to the Free Gospellers. Their antagonism to the church
organ is bitter enough, but the fiddle they regard as a very
incarnation of evil desires, singing forever of worldly pleasures
and inseparably associated with all forbidden things.
Eric Hermannson had long been the object of the prayers of the
revivalists. His mother had felt the power of the Spirit weeks ago,
and special prayer-meetings had been held at her house for her son.
But Eric had only gone his ways laughing, the ways of youth, which
are short enough at best, and none too flowery on the Divide. He
slipped away from the prayer-meetings to meet the Campbell boys in
Genereau's saloon, or hug the plump little French girls at
Chevalier's dances, and sometimes, of a summer night, he even went
across the dewy cornfields and through the wild-plum thicket to play
the fiddle for Lena Hanson, whose name was a reproach through all
the Divide country, where the women are usually too plain and too
busy and too tired to depart from the ways of virtue. On such
occasions Lena, attired in a pink wrapper and silk stockings and
tiny pink slippers, would sing to him, accompanying herself on a
battered guitar. It gave him a delicious sense of freedom and
experience to be with a woman who, no matter how, had lived in big
cities and knew the ways of town-folk, who had never worked in the
fields and had kept her hands white and soft, her throat fair and
tender, who had heard great singers in Denver and Salt Lake, and who
knew the strange language of flattery and idleness and mirth.
Yet, careless as he seemed, the frantic prayers of his mother were
not altogether without their effect upon Eric. For days he had been
fleeing before them as a criminal from his pursuers, and over his
pleasures had fallen the shadow of something dark and terrible that
dogged his steps. The harder he danced, the louder he sang, the more
was he conscious that this phantom was gaining upon him, that in
time it would track him down. One Sunday afternoon, late in the
fall, when he had been drinking beer with Lena Hanson and listening
to a song which made his cheeks burn, a rattlesnake had crawled out
of the side of the sod house and thrust its ugly head in under the
screen door. He was not afraid of snakes, but he knew enough of
Gospellism to feel the significance of the reptile lying coiled
there upon her doorstep. His lips were cold when he kissed Lena
good-by, and he went there no more.
The final barrier between Eric and his mother's faith was his
violin, and to that he clung as a man sometimes will cling to his
dearest sin, to the weakness more precious to him than all his
strength. In the great world beauty comes to men in many guises, and
art in a hundred forms, but for Eric there was only his violin. It
stood, to him, for all the manifestations of art; it was his only
bridge into the kingdom of the soul.
It was to Eric Hermannson that the evangelist directed his
impassioned pleading that night.
"_Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?_ Is there a Saul here
to-night who has stopped his ears to that gentle pleading, who has
thrust a spear into that bleeding side? Think of it, my brother; you
are offered this wonderful love and you prefer the worm that dieth
not and the fire which will not be quenched. What right have you to
lose one of God's precious souls? _Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou
me?_"
A great joy dawned in Asa Skinner's pale face, for he saw that Eric
Hermannson was swaying to and fro in his seat. The minister fell
upon his knees and threw his long arms up over his head.
"O my brothers! I feel it coming, the blessing we have prayed for. I
tell you the Spirit is coming! Just a little more prayer, brothers,
a little more zeal, and he will be here. I can feel his cooling wing
upon my brow. Glory be to God forever and ever, amen!"
The whole congregation groaned under the pressure of this spiritual
panic. Shouts and hallelujahs went up from every lip. Another figure
fell prostrate upon the floor. From the mourners' bench rose a chant
of terror and rapture:
"Eating honey and drinking wine,
_Glory to the bleeding Lamb!_
I am my Lord's and he is mine,
_Glory to the bleeding Lamb!_"
The hymn was sung in a dozen dialects and voiced all the vague
yearning of these hungry lives, of these people who had starved all
the passions so long, only to fall victims to the basest of them
all, fear.
A groan of ultimate anguish rose from Eric Hermannson's bowed head,
and the sound was like the groan of a great tree when it falls in
the forest.
The minister rose suddenly to his feet and threw back his head,
crying in a loud voice:
"_Lazarus, come forth!_ Eric Hermannson, you are lost, going down at
sea. In the name of God, and Jesus Christ his Son, I throw you the
life-line. Take hold! Almighty God, my soul for his!" The minister
threw his arms out and lifted his quivering face.
Eric Hermannson rose to his feet; his lips were set and the
lightning was in his eyes. He took his violin by the neck and
crushed it to splinters across his knee, and to Asa Skinner the
sound was like the shackles of sin broken audibly asunder.
II.
For more than two years Eric Hermannson kept the austere faith to
which he had sworn himself, kept it until a girl from the East came
to spend a week on the Nebraska Divide. She was a girl of other
manners and conditions, and there were greater distances between her
life and Eric's than all the miles which separated Rattlesnake Creek
from New York city. Indeed, she had no business to be in the West at
all; but ah! across what leagues of land and sea, by what improbable
chances, do the unrelenting gods bring to us our fate!
It was in a year of financial depression that Wyllis Elliot came to
Nebraska to buy cheap land and revisit the country where he had
spent a year of his youth. When he had graduated from Harvard it was
still customary for moneyed gentlemen to send their scapegrace sons
to rough it on ranches in the wilds of Nebraska or Dakota, or to
consign them to a living death in the sage-brush of the Black Hills.
These young men did not always return to the ways of civilized life.
But Wyllis Elliot had not married a half-breed, nor been shot in a
cow-punchers' brawl, nor wrecked by bad whisky, nor appropriated by
a smirched adventuress. He had been saved from these things by a
girl, his sister, who had been very near to his life ever since the
days when they read fairy tales together and dreamed the dreams that
never come true. On this, his first visit to his father's ranch
since he left it six years before, he brought her with him. She had
been laid up half the winter from a sprain received while skating,
and had had too much time for reflection during those months. She
was restless and filled with a desire to see something of the wild
country of which her brother had told her so much. She was to be
married the next winter, and Wyllis understood her when she begged
him to take her with him on this long, aimless jaunt across the
continent, to taste the last of their freedom together. It comes to
all women of her type--that desire to taste the unknown which
allures and terrifies, to run one's whole soul's length out to the
wind--just once.
It had been an eventful journey. Wyllis somehow understood that
strain of gypsy blood in his sister, and he knew where to take her.
They had slept in sod houses on the Platte River, made the
acquaintance of the personnel of a third-rate opera company on the
train to Deadwood, dined in a camp of railroad constructors at the
world's end beyond New Castle, gone through the Black Hills on
horseback, fished for trout in Dome Lake, watched a dance at Cripple
Creek, where the lost souls who hide in the hills gathered for their
besotted revelry. And now, last of all, before the return to
thraldom, there was this little shack, anchored on the windy crest
of the Divide, a little black dot against the flaming sunsets, a
scented sea of cornland bathed in opalescent air and blinding
sunlight.
Margaret Elliot was one of those women of whom there are so many in
this day, when old order, passing, giveth place to new; beautiful,
talented, critical, unsatisfied, tired of the world at twenty-four.
For the moment the life and people of the Divide interested her. She
was there but a week; perhaps had she stayed longer, that inexorable
ennui which travels faster even than the Vestibule Limited would
have overtaken her. The week she tarried there was the week that
Eric Hermannson was helping Jerry Lockhart thresh; a week earlier or
a week later, and there would have been no story to write.
It was on Thursday and they were to leave on Saturday. Wyllis and
his sister were sitting on the wide piazza of the ranchhouse,
staring out into the afternoon sunlight and protesting against the
gusts of hot wind that blew up from the sandy river-bottom twenty
miles to the southward.
The young man pulled his cap lower over his eyes and remarked:
"This wind is the real thing; you don't strike it anywhere else. You
remember we had a touch of it in Algiers and I told you it came from
Kansas. It's the key-note of this country."
Wyllis touched her hand that lay on the hammock and continued
gently:
"I hope it's paid you, Sis. Roughing it's dangerous business; it
takes the taste out of things."
She shut her fingers firmly over the brown hand that was so like her
own.
"Paid? Why, Wyllis, I haven't been so happy since we were children
and were going to discover the ruins of Troy together some day. Do
you know, I believe I could just stay on here forever and let the
world go on its own gait. It seems as though the tension and strain
we used to talk of last winter were gone for good, as though one
could never give one's strength out to such petty things any more."
Wyllis brushed the ashes of his pipe away from the silk handkerchief
that was knotted about his neck and stared moodily off at the
sky-line.
"No, you're mistaken. This would bore you after a while. You can't
shake the fever of the other life. I've tried it. There was a time
when the gay fellows of Rome could trot down into the Thebaid and
burrow into the sandhills and get rid of it. But it's all too
complex now. You see we've made our dissipations so dainty and
respectable that they've gone further in than the flesh, and taken
hold of the ego proper. You couldn't rest, even here. The war-cry
would follow you."
"You don't waste words, Wyllis, but you never miss fire. I talk more
than you do, without saying half so much. You must have learned the
art of silence from these taciturn Norwegians. I think I like silent
men."
"Naturally," said Wyllis, "since you have decided to marry the most
brilliant talker you know."
Both were silent for a time, listening to the sighing of the hot
wind through the parched morning-glory vines. Margaret spoke first.
"Tell me, Wyllis, were many of the Norwegians you used to know as
interesting as Eric Hermannson?"
"Who, Siegfried? Well, no. He used to be the flower of the Norwegian
youth in my day, and he's rather an exception, even now. He has
retrograded, though. The bonds of the soil have tightened on him, I
fancy."
"Siegfried? Come, that's rather good, Wyllis. He looks like a
dragon-slayer. What is it that makes him so different from the
others? I can talk to him; he seems quite like a human being."
"Well," said Wyllis, meditatively, "I don't read Bourget as much as
my cultured sister, and I'm not so well up in analysis, but I fancy
it's because one keeps cherishing a perfectly unwarranted suspicion
that under that big, hulking anatomy of his, he may conceal a soul
somewhere. Nicht wahr?"
"Something like that," said Margaret, thoughtfully, "except that
it's more than a suspicion, and it isn't groundless. He has one, and
he makes it known, somehow, without speaking."
"I always have my doubts about loquacious souls," Wyllis remarked,
with the unbelieving smile that had grown habitual with him.
Margaret went on, not heeding the interruption. "I knew it from the
first, when he told me about the suicide of his cousin, the
Bernstein boy. That kind of blunt pathos can't be summoned at will
in anybody. The earlier novelists rose to it, sometimes,
unconsciously. But last night when I sang for him I was doubly sure.
Oh, I haven't told you about that yet! Better light your pipe again.
You see, he stumbled in on me in the dark when I was pumping away at
that old parlor organ to please Mrs. Lockhart. It's her household
fetish and I've forgotten how many pounds of butter she made and
sold to buy it. Well, Eric stumbled in, and in some inarticulate
manner made me understand that he wanted me to sing for him. I sang
just the old things, of course. It's queer to sing familiar things
here at the world's end. It makes one think how the hearts of men
have carried them around the world, into the wastes of Iceland and
the jungles of Africa and the islands of the Pacific. I think if one
lived here long enough one would quite forget how to be trivial, and
would read only the great books that we never get time to read in
the world, and would remember only the great music, and the things
that are really worth while would stand out clearly against that
horizon over there. And of course I played the intermezzo from
'Cavalleria Rusticana' for him; it goes rather better on an organ
than most things do. He shuffled his feet and twisted his big hands
up into knots and blurted out that he didn't know there was any
music like that in the world. Why, there were tears in his voice,
Wyllis! Yes, like Rossetti, I _heard_ his tears. Then it dawned upon
me that it was probably the first good music he had ever heard in
all his life. Think of it, to care for music as he does and never to
hear it, never to know that it exists on earth! To long for it as we
long for other perfect experiences that never come. I can't tell you
what music means to that man. I never saw any one so susceptible to
it. It gave him speech, he became alive. When I had finished the
intermezzo, he began telling me about a little crippled brother who
died and whom he loved and used to carry everywhere in his arms. He
did not wait for encouragement. He took up the story and told it
slowly, as if to himself, just sort of rose up and told his own woe
to answer Mascagni's. It overcame me."
"Poor devil," said Wyllis, looking at her with mysterious eyes, "and
so you've given him a new woe. Now he'll go on wanting Grieg and
Schubert the rest of his days and never getting them. That's a
girl's philanthropy for you!"
Jerry Lockhart came out of the house screwing his chin over the
unusual luxury of a stiff white collar, which his wife insisted upon
as a necessary article of toilet while Miss Elliot was at the house.
Jerry sat down on the step and smiled his broad, red smile at
Margaret.
"Well, I've got the music for your dance, Miss Elliot. Olaf Oleson
will bring his accordion and Mollie will play the organ, when she
isn't lookin' after the grub, and a little chap from Frenchtown will
bring his fiddle--though the French don't mix with the Norwegians
much."
"Delightful! Mr. Lockhart, that dance will be the feature of our
trip, and it's so nice of you to get it up for us. We'll see the
Norwegians in character at last," cried Margaret, cordially.
"See here, Lockhart, I'll settle with you for backing her in this
scheme," said Wyllis, sitting up and knocking the ashes out of his pipe.
"She's done crazy things enough on this trip, but to talk of dancing
all night with a gang of half-mad Norwegians and taking the carriage
at four to catch the six o'clock train out of Riverton--well, it's
tommy-rot, that's what it is!"
"Wyllis, I leave it to your sovereign power of reason to decide
whether it isn't easier to stay up all night than to get up at three
in the morning. To get up at three, think what that means! No, sir,
I prefer to keep my vigil and then get into a sleeper."
"But what do you want with the Norwegians? I thought you were tired
of dancing."
"So I am, with some people. But I want to see a Norwegian dance, and
I intend to. Come, Wyllis, you know how seldom it is that one really
wants to do anything nowadays. I wonder when I have really wanted to
go to a party before. It will be something to remember next month at
Newport, when we have to and don't want to. Remember your own theory
that contrast is about the only thing that makes life endurable.
This is my party and Mr. Lockhart's; your whole duty to-morrow night
will consist in being nice to the Norwegian girls. I'll warrant you
were adept enough at it once. And you'd better be very nice indeed,
for if there are many such young valkyrs as Eric's sister among
them, they would simply tie you up in a knot if they suspected you
were guying them."
Wyllis groaned and sank back into the hammock to consider his fate,
while his sister went on.
"And the guests, Mr. Lockhart, did they accept?"
Lockhart took out his knife and began sharpening it on the sole of
his plowshoe.
"Well, I guess we'll have a couple dozen. You see it's pretty hard
to get a crowd together here any more. Most of 'em have gone over to
the Free Gospellers, and they'd rather put their feet in the fire
than shake 'em to a fiddle."
Margaret made a gesture of impatience.
"Those Free Gospellers have just cast an evil
|
,
Gwydir Chapel.
_Angling
Stations_.—Bettws-y-
Coed, 3 m.; Trevriw,
2½ m.; Dolgarrog, 4
m.; Llanbedr, 5 m.;
Dolwyddelan, 8 m.;
Tal-y-Llyn, and Llyn
Cravnant, near
Llanrwst.
_Hotel_.—The Eagles.
CONWY 12 _Objects of
Interest_.—The
Castle, Church,
Curious Monuments,
Plâs Mawr, Ormshead,
Suspension and
Tubular Bridges.
_Angling
Stations_.—Same as
above.
_Hotels_.—Castle &
Newborough Arms.
BANGOR 9 _Objects of
Interest_.—Penrhyn
Castle, Slate
Quarries, Britannia
Tubular Bridge, Menai
Bridge, Beaumaris,
Castle, Penmon
Monastery, Plas
Newydd, Baron Hill,
Puffin Island, and
the Cathedral.
_Angling
Stations_.—Llyn
Ogwen, Llyn Idwal,
and Ogwen River.
_Hotels_.—The Penrhyn
Arms, Castle,
Liverpool Arms, and
Albion.
CARNARVON 8 _Objects of
Interest_.—The
Castle, the Harbour,
and Ruins of
Segontium, at
Llanbeblig.
_Hotels_.—Uxbridge
Arms, Castle, and
Sportsman.
_Angling
Stations_.—The
Seiont, Pont Newydd.
_And back to Bangor_ 8
ABERGELE 25¼ _Objects of
Interest_.—Kinmel
Park, Gwrych Castle.
_Angling
Stations_.—Elwy,
Aled.
_Hotel_.—Bee.
RHYL 4¼ _Objects of
Interest_.—A _detour_
viâ Rhuddlan, 2 m.,
St. Asaph, 3½,
Denbigh, 6, affords a
pleasant day’s
excursion.
_Angling
Stations_.—Clwyd and
Elwy.
_Hotels_.—Belvoir,
Royal, Mostyn Arms.
HOLYWELL 13 _Objects of
Interest_.—St.
Winefred’s Well,
Basingwerk.
_Hotels_.—White
Horse, King’s Arms,
King’s Head, Red
Lion.
FLINT 5 _Object of
Interest_.—The
Castle.
_Hotels_.—Royal Oak,
Ship.
HAWARDEN 7½ _Objects of
Interest_.—Castle and
Park.
_Hotel_.—Glynne Arms.
CHESTER 7 _Objects of
Interest_.—The Castle
and Armory, the
Walls, Rows,
Cathedral, Old Houses
in Watergate Street,
Underground Chapel in
Bridge Street, and
the Ancient Residence
of the Earls of
Derby.
_Angling
Station_.—The Dee.
_Hotels_.—Royal,
Albion, Feathers,
White Lion, Green
Dragon, Blossoms,
Hop-pole.
FIVE DAYS’ EXCURSION FROM CHESTER OR SHREWSBURY.
FIRST DAY.—Chester or Shrewsbury to Llangollen Road Station by rail, 20
miles; Llangollen, 5 m; Corwen, 10 m.
SECOND DAY.—Bettws y Coed, 22½ m; Llanrwst, 5 m; Capel Curig, 10 m.
THIRD DAY.—Llanberis, 10 m; Dolbadarn Castle and back, 4 m; Beddgelert,
12 m; Pont Aber Glaslyn and back, 3 m; Carnarvon, 13 m.
FOURTH DAY.—Bangor, 8 m; Plas Newydd, 5 m; Beaumaris, 6½ m.
FIFTH DAY.—Conwy, 14¼ m; Llandudno, Orme’s Head, back to Conwy, 10; and
per rail to Chester, 45½ m.
NINE DAYS’ EXCURSION FROM CHESTER.
FIRST DAY.—Chester to Hawarden, 7 m; Flint, 7 m; Holywell, 5 m.
SECOND DAY.—Rhyl, 13½ m; Rhuddlan, 2 m; St. Asaph, 3½ m; Denbigh, 6 m.
THIRD DAY.—Abergele, 13 m; Conwy, 11 m.; Llandudno and back, 10 m.
FOURTH DAY.—Bangor, 14½ m.; Plas Newydd, 5 m; Beaumaris, 6 m. (See
Bridges.)
FIFTH DAY.—Holyhead and back, 50 m; Carnarvon, 8.
SIXTH DAY.—Beddgelert, 13 m; Pont Aber Glaslyn and back, 3 m; Llanberis,
12 m; Dolbadarn and back, 4 m.
SEVENTH DAY.—Capel Curig, 10 m.; Rhaiadr y Wennol, 3½ m.; Bettws y Coed,
1½ m; Llanrwst, 5 m.
EIGHTH DAY.—Corwen, 26 m; Llangollen, 10 m. (See Valle Crucis Abbey,
Castell Dinas Brân, and Plâs Newydd.)
NINTH DAY.—Pont y Cysylltau Aqueduct, 3 m; Chirk, 3 m; (see Chirk Castle
and Brynkinalt;) Ruabon, 6; (see Wynnstay); Wrexham, 4½; Chester, 12 m.
* * * * *
*** For objects of interest, angling stations, and hotels, see first
Route.
CHAPTER I.
Preliminary Observations.—Preparations for a Tour.—Rail to
Shrewsbury.—Battlefield Church.—Chirk.—The Castle.—Brynkinalt.—Viaducts
and Aqueducts.—A Delightful Walk.—Llangollen.
“Like brethren now do Welshmen still agree
In as much love as any men alive;
The friendship there and concord that I see
I doe compare to bees in honey hive,
Which keep in swarme, and hold together still,
Yet gladly showe to stranger great good will;
A courteous kinde of love in every place
A man may finde, in simple people’s face.”
CHURCHYARD.
VARIOUS, as the features of human nature, are the sources of human
happiness. Some derive their choicest pleasure from historical accounts
of men who lived in by-gone ages, and in re-creating events that have
long since been engulphed in the abyss of time,—breaking down the barrier
of intervening years, and mingling, in idea, with those who were once
deemed the glorious of the earth, who now lie blended with its grossest
atoms, or are confounded with the purer elements. Some, parching with
the thirst of knowledge, seek to slake the fever of their minds with most
laborious research; explore the utmost regions of the globe to find a
shorter marine passage; or pierce into its depths to seek for treasures
which only exist in their heated fancies. The vast ocean is fathomed to
satisfy the ruling principle of their natures,—curiosity; and the realms
of air traversed with the same motive to insure the universally desired
result, self-gratification. While some, leaving the elements to perform
the destined changes, are willing to agree with the poet, who in the
warmth of his philanthropy exclaims:
“The proper study of mankind is man;”
and among this class of beings the author of these pages may be ranked,
although he willingly confesses nature has the power of charming him in
her most minute as in her most stupendous works, from the curious and
confined instinct of the ant and of the bee to the wonderful and
exhaustless energies of the human mind,
“That source
Whence learning, virtue, wisdom, all things flow.”
The court, the city, and the country, present an endless variety of
subjects for contemplation; and the latter being the region of delight to
those whose business confines them to the metropolis for the winter
months, the author of this volume is anxious to be thought a useful and
amusing companion to such tourists who, in pursuit of health and the
charms of nature, may wander
“In the Welsh vales ’mid mountains high.”
where the sublime and beautiful present themselves at every turn to
captivate the eye, and ruddy health colours the smiling faces of every
peasant girl and shepherd boy, from Chirk to Holyhead.
To a mind capable of estimating fine scenery, how delightful are the
hurry and bustle which usually take place on the morning of departure, in
fond expectation of realizing the anticipated pleasure of viewing those
beauties of nature the imagination has but weakly painted! The sun is
scarcely sooner up than the traveller; and, although, perhaps, it is yet
three hours to the time of departure, his anxiety preponderates over the
now slighted comforts of his bed of down, and with an agile leap he quits
his restless pillow, and hastily despatching the business of his toilet,
with his heart beating high, and his knapsack already stuffed with three
shirts, as many pairs of stockings, guide books, and as few other
necessaries as may be, in order to make his walking wardrobe as light as
possible, he prepares to take the road. If a disciple of old Izaac
Walton and Cotton, he will not fail to have his book of flies, lines,
reels, &c., and a light fly-rod to carry in his hand, and for which he is
sure to have use whenever he feels inclined for piscatory pastime on his
tour. So stocked and provided, he bids defiance to the evils of life;
and may exclaim with the poet
“Warly cares and warly men
May a’ gae tapsalteeree O!”
“The cab is at the door, Sir.”
“Very good.”
“Is everything I want put into it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, good-bye!”
“Now, my man, drive to Euston-square Station.”
“All right, Sir.” And away we went,
What a scene of bustle and confusion a metropolitan railway station
presents a few minutes before the starting of a train, and more
especially in holiday time. Men, women, and children, in every
direction, hurriedly traversing the crowded platform; luggage barrows,
with porters, rushing to and fro; newspaper venders bawling “_Times_!
_Chronicle_! _Punch_!” Cabs galloping into the yard with anxious
passengers; others, after having deposited their living burthens, slowly
quitting it; the crowd of persons pressing forward for their tickets,
jamming and jostling each other, as if the existence of each individual
depended upon his or her obtaining that necessary passport. At length
all are supplied and seated in their various carriages. Phiz! goes the
steam, and the train slowly and majestically quits the station, gathering
fresh speed in its progress, until the travellers find themselves whirled
along at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour; station after station
appear and disappear like the lightning flash of a summer’s cloud—
“A moment bright, then lost for ever,”
and in the short space of a few hours the journey to Shrewsbury is
accomplished.
BATTLEFIELD.
Within two miles of Shrewsbury, and nearly the same distance from the
railway, upon the right of the line, the traveller will behold
Battlefield Church, built by Henry the Fourth to commemorate the
celebrated Battle of Shrewsbury, which, like that of Bosworth, has been
immortalised by the magic pen of Shakspere. Who cannot call to
remembrance the gallant and fiery Hotspur, or the future Hero of
Agincourt?—“Young Harry with his beaver on,”—and last, not least, fat
Jack Falstaff, his humourous catechism upon “Honour;” with whom
discretion was the better part of valour, notwithstanding his “long
hour’s fight by Shrewsbury clock?” Here, covered with wounds, the
ambitious Hotspur fell, and his dead body, which had been buried on the
field, was unearthed, and barbarously bruised between two millstones, and
afterwards beheaded and quartered.
SHREWSBURY.
The old town of Shrewsbury contains many objects of considerable interest
and historical association, which will afford to the antiquary or the
curious abundant gratification for the few hours he may devote to them.
Those to which the traveller should in particular direct his attention
are the Castle, the Abbey, and St. Giles’s Church; the two former were
built by the first Norman Earl of Shrewsbury, Roger de Montgomery.
The town is beautifully situated on the Severn, on a peninsula made by
the bend of the river; and, standing upon gentle eminences, it presents a
bold and commanding appearance. Upon the west side of the town,
stretching along upon the banks of the river, and over-arched with
magnificent lime trees, is a most delightful promenade—called the Quarry.
Having stayed the night in Shrewsbury, the following morning I once more
placed myself in a railway carriage for a short ride upon the line to
Chirk, at which place I had made up my mind to commence my pedestrian
tour. I think it necessary, however, to impress upon the minds of
tourists that the Llangollen Road Station (which is a mile beyond Chirk)
is unquestionably the key upon this side of the country to the very heart
of the finest scenery in Wales, and that from thence he can obtain public
conveyances which run daily to Capel Curig, Snowdon, Bala, Barmouth,
Dolgelley, and a hundred other enchanting places in the Principality.
Arriving at Chirk Station, I, like the Honourable Dick Dowlas, with my
wardrobe on my back, and a light heart, proceeded on the road to the
village. Bees hummed, birds sang, and blossoms sent forth their
fragrance, to delight the traveller as he gaily trudged “the footpath
way.” Cheerfulness was above, beneath, and around me, and in my heart.
I had not taken many paces when I was accosted by an elderly person, in a
straw hat, fustian shooting coat, knee breeches, gaiters, and shoes, he
had a stout cudgel in his hand, and knapsack more capacious than mine
strapped over his shoulders. He appeared to be about fifty-five years of
age, and being furnished like myself, it struck me that a passing
traveller might naturally take us for father and son.
Fortunately, we were pursuing the same route, and a desultory dialogue
commenced with the never-failing observation—
“A fine morning, Sir.”
“Very.”
“A great admirer of the charms of nature, I presume?”
“An enthusiastic one.”
“You’re for the Welsh vales, I suppose?”
“And mountains high,” I exclaimed, warming to my loquacious companion—
“In the Welsh vales ’mid mountains high,”
sang he, in a round-toned voice, with which I chimed in, and we were the
best friends on a sudden.
There certainly is no society so interesting as that picked up by the
tourist, who leaves with contempt the starched formalities of a great
city behind him, and walks forth unencumbered by care, to enjoy the
society of mankind in its varied and unsophisticated nature. Every
person we meet affords us information and delight; for a kindred spirit
animates almost every individual whom you may chance to encounter in
countries remarkable for beauties of scenery, and especially in a region
like North Wales, where inns of the best kind are situated at the most
convenient points, and the foot passenger is treated with as much respect
as a lord in his carriage. The landlords of inns here think that a man
may make the proper use of his legs without being a beggar; and that the
costume of a pedestrian may cover the form of a gentleman. This
philanthropic conception contributes to form that happy combination,
civil hosts and merry travellers.
There is no want of society, nor any difficulty in selecting that with
which you are best pleased; for every evening brings in fresh comers from
various quarters to the different places of rest and refreshment. The
exchange of information respecting routes, the different adventures of
the day, the peculiar feelings displayed in their recital, and
countenances lit up with pleasure, give a degree of animation to the
evening, never to be equalled in the brilliant drawing-room, the blaze of
which seems to put out the eyes of reason,—
“And men are—what they name not to themselves
And trust not to each other.”
THE VILLAGE OF CHIRK
is agreeably situated upon the northern bank of the river Ceiriog, which
divides England from Wales. The village church is dedicated to St. Mary,
and is an impropriation belonging to Valle Crucis Abbey, and contains
some monuments erected to the memories of the Chirk families. The most
interesting is that of the famous Sir Thomas Myddelton. In the
churchyard are some fine aged yew trees.
BRYNKINALT.
Taking the road upon the left of the church, we entered the charming park
of Brynkinalt, and visited one of the most picturesque seats in the
Principality. This elegant mansion, with its ivy-covered walls, is the
principal residence of the Viscount Dungannon, who is descended from
Tudor Trevor, Earl of Hereford, founder of one of the fifteen tribes of
North Wales. Valle Crucis Abbey, as well as many of the churches in the
neighbourhood, have been greatly improved at his lordship’s expense, who
is distinguished for archæological taste and research. The house was
built during the reign of James the First, from a design by Inigo Jones,
and is delightfully situated upon the brow of a hill, from which
circumstance it derives its name. The park is divided by the river
Ceiriog.
The late Duke of Wellington was maternally descended from this house.
His mother, the Countess of Mornington, who was a daughter of Arthur
Hill-Trevor, first Viscount Dungannon, spent much of her time here during
the boyhood of our illustrious hero, who frequently visited his noble
parent during the Eton holidays. There are yet living those who remember
the boyish frolics of him who was at a later period destined to act so
conspicuous a part in the world’s history.
By permission of the noble proprietor, the house and grounds are
accessible to strangers during the summer months, and the paintings by
Claude, Titian, Salvator Rosa, Carravaggio, Zucharelli, &c., are well
worthy the inspection of the connoisseur and artist.
CHIRK CASTLE.
“In Cambria’s noon of story,
Ere bright she set in glory,
The brave and great, in princely state,
All hail’d Chirk Castle walls.
With splendid arms returning,
The flaring torches burning,
’Mid armour’s clang the clarions rang,
And search’d the sounding halls.”
SONG BY F. M. DOVASTON, A.M.
Chirk Castle is delightfully situated on the spacious domain, spreading
over the summit of, what would be deemed, by a southern, a lofty
mountain, but which is here only designated a hill, projecting from the
range of the Berwyn Mountains, and is well calculated to recall the
stories of the days of old, when flourished—
“The good old rule, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.”
It is built of solid stone; and the ivy, mantling over the walls, gives
them an appearance of solemnity and grandeur peculiarly interesting. It
is quadrangular, and is strengthened by five massive towers, one at each
corner, and the fifth projecting from the principal front, through which
is a lofty entrance into the court-yard, 165 feet in length, and 100 feet
in breadth, surrounded on every side by noble suites of apartments. The
picture gallery measures 100 feet in length, by twenty-two in breadth,
and contains some very excellent paintings, and several portraits of the
Myddelton family. Amongst the latter is that of Sir Thomas Myddelton,
who defended himself gallantly against the forces of Cromwell. He was
rewarded for his loyalty by Charles the Second, who granted him £30,000
for the loss he had sustained, besides many valuable presents; amongst
others, a cabinet, which is shewn in the gallery, valued at £7000, richly
ornamented with silver; in various compartments of which are paintings,
said to have been executed by Rubens. The monarch offered to elevate Sir
Thomas to the peerage, which he declined.
[Picture: Chirk Castle]
The walls of the castle are eighteen feet in thickness; but sleeping and
other apartments have been cut into them, for the accommodation of the
family.
The celebrated picture of Pistyll Rhaiadr, in the dining-room, shows that
noble waterfall tumbling into the _sea_, _where several ships are quietly
riding at anchor_. “Pistyll Rhaiadr,” _i.e._ “The Spout of the
Cataract,” is considered the largest fall in Wales. In the valley of
Mochnant, about four miles from Llanrhaiadr, the river falls over an
almost perpendicular rock, 240 feet high; thence rushing furiously under
a natural arch towards the bottom, it plunges into a deep black pool,
overhung with impervious shaggy wood.
The story of the artist’s introducing the ocean, with ships, is rather
curious. He was a foreigner, and but little acquainted with the English
language; and when he had completed the picture, one of the persons to
whom it was first shown observed, that “a few _sheep_ placed near the
foot of the fall would be a great improvement.” Misunderstanding _sheep_
for _ship_, his amazement was extreme. He, however, took the picture to
his easel, and introduced _ships_, with the necessary element to float
them! A mistake so humourous determined the purchaser to allow of no
further alteration.
The present building was completed in two years. The first stone being
laid in the year 1011, and in 1013 the castle frowned defiance to the
foe.
It was built by Roger Mortimer, Earl of Wigmore, as a stronghold to
defend him from the just vengeance he had created by the murder of the
sons of Gruffydd ab Madoc, to whom he was appointed guardian, in
conjunction with John, Earl of Warren, in the hope of inheriting their
joint estates. Mortimer was to seize upon Nanheudwy and Chirk, the
property of the youngest; and Warren upon the lands of Bromfield, Yale,
and Dinas Bran, belonging to the eldest. Travellers should not neglect
to visit this noble specimen of warlike architecture. Its picture
gallery and dungeon will, in their different styles, excite admiration.
On the foundation of the present castle anciently stood Castle Crogen;
and the territory around bore the name of Trev-y Waun, the property of
the lords of Dinas Bran, which continued in their possession up to the
death of Gruffydd ab Madoc, in the reign of Edward the First.
The view from the highlands of the park is very extensive, and commands a
prospect of seventeen different counties.
The vale beneath, which winds along the foot of the vast Berwyn
Mountains, was the scene of a desperate conflict between Henry the Second
and the Welsh. Henry having determined once more to attempt the
subjugation of Wales, and to revenge the ravages carried through the
borders by its gallant prince, Owen Gwynedd, assembled a vast army at
Oswestry. Owen, on the contrary, collected all the chieftains and their
dependents at Corwen. The two armies met on the banks of the Ceiriog.
The conflict was obstinate and bloody, and numbers of brave men perished.
In the end the Welsh retired to Corwen. Henry reached the summit of the
Berwyn, but was so distressed by dreadful rains, and by the activity and
prudence of Owen, who cut him off from all supplies, that he was obliged
to return ingloriously, with considerable loss of men and equipage. The
place is still called _Adwy’r Beddau_, or the Pass of the Graves—of the
men who were slain there.
The remains of Offa’s Dyke, the ancient boundary between England and
Wales, are still visible near the castle, and may be traced a
considerable distance through the park.
The Vale of the Ceiriog at Chirk, like that of the Dee between Chirk and
Llangollen, is distinguished by two specimens of architectural skill and
enterprise, each valley being crossed by the Ellesmere Canal and the
Shrewsbury and Chester Railway, upon long ranges of arches, at a
considerable elevation.
The aqueducts of Chirk and Pont y Cysylltau have long been the objects of
general admiration, but for elegance of design, as well as magnitude,
they must now yield the palm to the viaducts of the railway, which are,
in truth, most noble structures.
In this lovely village we put up at the Chirk Castle Arms to take
luncheon, which was served with much civility—cold meat, a cream salad,
and a capital Cheshire cheese, with the best of Shropshire ale. This
excellent inn is kept by Mr. Moses.
After proceeding about a mile and a half on the Llangollen Road, and
leaving Wynnstay, the noble mansion of Sir Watkin Williams Wynn, Bart.,
M.P., on the right, we were conducted along the banks of a beautiful
canal (the same that crosses the valley at Chirk), which was here planted
with laurel and hazel in pleasing variety on either side. On a sudden,
an opening in the foliage presented us with a splendid view of the Vale
of the Dee, with the two noble structures, the viaduct and aqueduct,
gracefully stretching from hill to hill, and the waters of the river
making their way amongst the broken rocks and embowering trees, and
rolling under their arches with that delightful sound which is only heard
in mountain scenery.
Seldom had I experienced so delightful a sensation as the present
prospect occasioned. All was so calm, so quiet, it seemed, indeed, “the
Happy Valley.” Shortly after, however, we found that no golden pleasure
is entirely free from alloy, for on turning a projection upon the road,
we were nearly stifled from a lime furnace, and what was worse, another
and another still succeeded, resembling a line of batteries blazing and
vomiting forth smoke and destruction, while upon the opposite mountain an
uniform body of iron works were firing away from their tall chimneys, and
steadily maintained the never-ceasing conflict.
At length, however, having happily passed these belligerents, my
companion led me in triumph into a little public house on the road side,
which overlooked a precipice, the _Aqueduct Tavern_, the exterior of
which promised little better accommodation than is met with in an Irish
cabin. We entered, nevertheless, and although the floor was of brick, it
was very clean, and the household utensils glittered along the walls.
“Pray, gentlemen, walk into the back parlour,” said a comely-looking,
good-natured landlady of forty-three.
We gladly accepted her invitation, and were agreeably surprised to find a
neat room, carpeted, with a sofa, and half-a-dozen hair-bottomed chairs,
and every thing rurally comfortable. The window looked upon the
aqueduct, and commanded a beautiful prospect.
Having discussed our beverage, and lighted cigars, we quitted the
comfortable little cottage, and bent our steps towards the aqueduct, to
cross by it to the opposite side of the Vale.
A cigar in the cool of the evening is delightful,—
“Glorious tobacco, that from east to west,
Cheers the tar’s labour, and the Turk-man’s rest.”
So sang the noble bard, the music of whose lyre is left to charm the race
of mankind for ages yet to come.
We soon reached the centre of the aqueduct; it extends, from hill to
hill, in length 980 feet; it is sustained by twenty piers, 115 feet in
height from the bed of the river Dee, and the span of the arches is
forty-five feet.
The length of the viaduct is 1,538 feet; its height 147 feet, the number
of arches nineteen, and the span of each arch is sixty feet.
I never felt the influence of the sublime mingled with the beautiful so
deeply as when I stood upon this wonderful work of art; wherever I turned
my eyes the scene was calculated to excite the warmest feelings of
admiration. The Dee flowing beneath, shadowed by the rich tints of the
summer foliage; the ruined bridge; the dark mountain masses upon either
side, patched with gloomy pines, intermingled with the relieving
brightness of the graceful larch. Here waves the lovely blooming
heather, there stands the blasted rock in its naked majesty, the noble
amphitheatre at the extremity of the vale, with a distant view of the
viaduct; the twittering of the birds, as they settled to repose upon the
trees around, altogether gave a charm to the evening which can only be
felt while witnessing the scene, and which exceeds the power of
description.
Having crossed the aqueduct, we proceeded by the left bank of the canal,
passing a forge, that nearly stifled us with gaseous smoke, along a
pathway made of cinders and small coal, the refuse of the adjacent
iron-smelting foundry.
Trees of every description hung over our heads, and sloped down a deep
declivity to the margin of the Dee, while on the opposite bank the
mountain frowned above us. The partial glances we obtained of the vale
through the woods, discovered scenes which the artist’s fancy might
vainly attempt to equal.
At length we reached the Bridge of Llangollen, whence the river is seen
to great advantage, tumbling over its rocky bed, and rushing beneath the
dark shelter of the over-hanging trees. The village is small, and
contains two respectable hotels, viz., the Hand, at which we stopped by
the advice of my companion, and the Royal Hotel.
We were shown into a very good parlour, and after ordering a tea and
supper dinner, my friend, somewhat exhausted by the day’s march, flung
himself upon a sofa, while I resumed my journal, and soon afterwards
retired to my bed-room, where the murmurs of the flowing Dee were
distinctly heard beneath the window.
“Here I am, then,” said I, soliloquising, as I pressed the pillow; “here
am I, at length, in the Vale of Llangollen; in the village of
Llangollen,—a spot which I have so often longed to visit!”
“Flow on, thou shining river!”
and in a few moments I sank soundly to sleep.
CHAPTER II.
Plas Newydd.—Castell Dinas Brân.—Valle Crucis Abbey.—Pillar of
Eliseg.—Vale of the Dee.—Corwen.—Route to Llandrillo.—Vale of
Edeyrnion.—Arrival at Bala.
“I crossed in its beauty the Dee’s druid water,
The waves as I passed rippled lonely and lone,
For the brave on their borders had perished in slaughter,
The noble were banished, the gifted were gone.”
W. WIFFEN.
I WAS dreaming of home, and happiness, and a thousand lovely things, when
I was awakened by my new acquaintance, who stood before me dressed for a
sturdy walk. “A lovely morning,” said my companion, rubbing his hands
with much delight; “come, bustle, bustle, my young friend; you are not in
London, now. Permit me to open the lattice; you will find no perfume at
your chamber window in town like this; and, as he spoke, he flung open
the casement, and a rush of fragrance poured into the room from hundreds
of roses that clustered upon the wall without; nor was my friend at all
deficient in praising its sweetness, for, taking a long breath, he stood,
for a moment, with his mouth wide open, and then sent forth a sigh, long
enough to form a bridge over the river for the fairies to cross upon.
“Shall we breakfast before we set out upon our ramble? I think we had
better give orders for it, and visit the cottage where Lady Eleanor
Butler and Miss Ponsonby so long resided, while it is preparing.”
This being agreed to, we gave directions for a breakfast, that would
enable us to undergo the subsequent fatigue with cheerfulness, and then
struck into the road for Plas Newydd. This memorable little dwelling is
pleasantly situated upon a rising knoll, and commands a delightful
prospect of mountain scenery.
[Picture: Font in the Grounds of Plâs Newydd]
The front of the cottage is ornamented with an oaken palisade, curiously
carved with grotesque figures, giving a very tasty and aristocratic
appearance to the building. At the back of the house is a neat grass
plot, with a birdcote, where the robins find a grateful shelter in the
winter season, and where the ladies fed them every morning. It is
surrounded with a fence of evergreens. From thence, the gardener
conducted us under an archway, to a very pleasant and winding path, which
leads to a well-stocked fruit garden. We then descended by a shady walk,
arched over with tall trees, to the primrose vale, through which a
refreshing stream rushes over rocks, where the sun but rarely gilds it
with its beams. It is a delightful cool retreat, and well calculated to
awaken the dormant spirit of poesy, in any heart where it had ever
deigned to dwell. We passed over a rustic bridge which led us to the
verandah, from which we had a fine view of the valley, and the Pengwern
and Berwyn Mountains; and then proceeding a little farther up the glen,
we seated ourselves opposite a most picturesque font, brought hither from
the ruins of Valle Crucis, by the late proprietors of this spot. It is
enclosed in a small arched niche, and supplied with the purest water from
a murmuring rill, which falls in a thin stream into the bowl, a draught
from which is an exquisite treat—for _water_ drinkers.
The flower garden is laid out with great taste, and the little circular
dairy, sunk in the ground, on the left at the front entrance, gives a
most pleasing and picturesque effect. Altogether it is a place to which
any person, wearied with the bustle of society, would willingly fly for
refuge, and find repose.
Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby were young ladies of beauty and
rank, who loved each other with so true an affection that they could
never bear the afflicting idea of a separation which the marriage of
either might occasion. They, therefore, resolved upon lives of celibacy,
refusing many handsome offers, and remaining deaf to the persuasions of
their friends, they retired to the beautiful Vale of Llangollen to enjoy
the happiness of each other’s company, that as their friendship began in
infancy it might be perpetuated through life.
These celebrated ladies were the pride of Llangollen for more than half a
century, and by their numerous charities and general kindness of
disposition, had endeared themselves to the hearts of the whole
|
, the flaming autumn
woods, the sombre forest at shut of day, when the dusk creeps
stealthily along the glimmering aisles, the stream passing clear among
large-leaved water-plants and spires of bloom; and the mood goes
deeper still, for it echoes the marching music of the heart, its
glowing hopes, its longing for strength and purity and peace, its
delight in the nearness of other hearts, its wisdom, its nobility.
But the end and aim of all these various influences is the same; their
power lies in the fact that they quicken in the spirit the sense of
the energy, the delight, the greatness of life, the share that we can
claim in them, the largeness of our own individual hope and destiny;
and that is the real work of all the thoughts that may be roughly
called poetical; that they reveal to us something permanent and strong
and beautiful, something which has an irrepressible energy, and which
outlines itself clearly upon the dark background of days, a spirit
with which we can join hands and hold deep communication, which we
instinctively feel is the greatest reality of the world. In such
moments we perceive that the times when we descend into the meaner
and duller and drearier businesses of life are interludes in our real
being, into which we have to descend, not because of the actual worth
of the baser tasks, but that we may practise the courage and the hope
we ought to bring away from the heavenly vision. The more that men
have this thirst for beauty, for serene energy, for fulness of life,
the higher they are in the scale, and the less will they quarrel with
the obscurity and humility of their lives, because they are
confidently waiting for a purer, higher, more untroubled life, to
which we are all on our way, whether we realise it or no!
V
ART
It is not uncommon for me to receive letters from young aspirants,
containing poems, and asking me for an opinion on their merits. Such a
letter generally says that the writer feels it hardly worth while to
go on writing poetry unless he or she is assured that the poems are
worth something. In such cases I reply that the answer lies there!
Unless it seems worth while, unless indeed poetry is the outcome of an
irrepressible desire to express something, it is certainly not worth
while writing. On the other hand, if the desire is there, it is just
as well worth practising as any other form of artistic expression. A
man who liked sketching in water-colours would not be restrained from
doing so by the fear that he might not become an Academician, a person
who liked picking out tunes on a piano need not desist because there
is no prospect of his earning money by playing in public!
Poetry is of all forms of literary expression the least likely to
bring a man credit or cash. Most intelligent people with a little gift
of writing have a fair prospect of getting prose articles published.
But no one wants third-rate poetry; editors fight shy of it, and
volumes of it are unsaleable.
I have myself written so much poetry, have published so many volumes
of verse, that I can speak sympathetically on the subject. I worked
very hard indeed at poetry for seven or eight years, wrote little
else, and the published volumes form only a small part of my output,
which exists in many manuscript volumes. I achieved no particular
success. My little books were fairly well received, and I sold a few
hundred copies; I have even had a few pieces inserted in anthologies.
But though I have wholly deserted the practice of poetry, and though I
can by no means claim to be reckoned a poet, I do not in the least
regret the years I gave to it. In the first place it was an intense
pleasure to write. The cadences, the metres, the language, the
rhymes, all gave me a rapturous delight. It trained minute
observation--my poems were mostly nature-poems--and helped me to
disentangle the salient points and beauties of landscapes, hills,
trees, flowers, and even insects. Then too it is a very real training
in the use of words; it teaches one what words are musical, sonorous,
effective; while the necessity of having to fit words to metre
increases one's stock of words and one's power of applying them. When
I came back to writing prose, I found that I had a far larger and more
flexible vocabulary than I had previously possessed; and though the
language of poetry is by no means the same as that of prose--it is a
pity that the two kinds of diction are so different in English,
because it is not always so in other languages--yet it made the
writing of ornamental and elaborate prose an easier matter; it gave
one too a sense of form; a poem must have a certain balance and
proportion; so that when one who has written verse comes to write
prose, a subject falls easily into divisions, and takes upon itself a
certain order of course and climax.
But these are only consequences and resulting advantages. The main
reason for writing poetry is and must be the delight of doing it, the
rapture of perceiving a beautiful subject, and the pleasure of
expressing it as finely and delicately as one can. I have given it up
because, as William Morris once said of himself, "to make poetry just
for the sake of making it is a crime for a man of my age and
experience!"
One's feelings lose poetic flow
Soon after twenty-seven or so!
One begins to think of experience in a different sort of way, not as a
series of glowing points and pictures, which outline themselves
radiantly upon a duller background, but as a rich full thing, like a
great tapestry, all of which is important, if it is not all beautiful.
It is not that the marvel and wonder of life is less; but it is more
equable, more intricate, more mysterious. It does not rise at times,
like a sea, into great crested breakers, but it comes marching in
evenly, roller after roller, as far as the eye can reach.
And then too poetry becomes cramped and confined for all that one
desires to say. One lived life, as a young man, rather for the sake
of the emotions which occasionally transfigured it, with a priestly
sense of its occasional splendour; there was not time to be leisurely,
humorous, gently interested. But as we grow older, we perceive that
poetical emotion is but one of many forces, and our sympathy grows and
extends itself in more directions. One had but little patience in the
old days for quiet, prosaic, unemotional people; but now it becomes
clear that a great many persons live life on very simple and direct
lines; one wants to understand their point of view better, one is
conscious of the merits of plainer stuff; and so the taste broadens
and deepens, and becomes like a brimming river rather than a leaping
crystal fount. Life receives a hundred affluents, and is tinged with
many new substances; and one begins to see that if poetry is the
finest and sweetest interpretation of life, it is not always the
completest or even the largest.
If we examine the lives of poets, we too often see how their
inspiration flagged and failed. Milton indeed wrote his noblest verse
in middle-age, after a life immersed in affairs. Wordsworth went on
writing to the end, but all his best poetry was written in about five
early years. Tennyson went on to a patriarchal age, but there is
little of his later work that bears comparison with what he wrote
before he was forty. Browning produced volume after volume, but, with
the exception of an occasional fine lyric, his later work is hardly
more than an illustration of his faults of writing. Coleridge deserted
poetry very early; Byron, Shelley, Keats, all died comparatively
young.
The Letters of Keats give perhaps a more vivid and actual view of the
mind and soul of a poet than any other existing document. One sees
there, naïvely and nobly expressed, the very essence of the poetical
nature, the very soil out of which poetry flowers. It is wonderful,
because it is so wholly sane, simple, and unaffected. It is usual to
say that the Letters give one a picture of rather a second-rate and
suburban young man, with vulgar friends and _banal_ associations, with
one prodigious and matchless faculty. But it is that very background
that constitutes the supreme force of the appeal. Keats accepted his
circumstances, his friends, his duties with a singular modesty. He was
not for ever complaining that he was unappreciated and underestimated.
His commonplaceness, when it appears, is not a defect of quality, but
an eager human interest in the personalities among whom his lot was
cast. But every now and then there swells up a poignant sense of
passion and beauty, a sacred, haunting, devouring fire of inspiration,
which leaps high and clear upon the homely altar.
Thus he writes: "This morning poetry has conquered--I have relapsed
into those abstractions which are my only life--I feel escaped from a
new, strange, and threatening sorrow.... There is an awful warmth
about my heart, like a load of immortality." Or again: "I feel more
and more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live
in this world alone, but in a thousand worlds." And again: "I have
loved the principle of beauty in all things."
One sees in these passages that there not only is a difference of
force and passion, but an added quality of some kind in the mind of a
poet, a combination of fine perception and emotion, which
instantaneously and instinctively translates itself into words.
For it must never be forgotten how essential a part of the poet is the
knack of words. I do not doubt that there are hundreds of people who
are haunted and penetrated by a lively sense of beauty, whose emotions
are fiery and sweet, but who have not just the intellectual store of
words, which must drip like honey from an overflowing jar. It is a
gift as definite as that of the sculptor or the musician, an exuberant
fertility and swiftness of brain, that does not slowly and painfully
fit a word into its place, but which breathes thought direct into
music.
The most subtle account of this that I know is given in a passage in
Shelley's _Defence of Poetry_. He says: "A man cannot say 'I will
compose poetry'--the greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in
creation is like a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like
an inconstant wind, awakes to transitory brightness. The power arises
from within, like the colour of a flower which fades and changes as it
is developed, and the conscious portions of our nature are unprophetic
either of its approach or its departure. When composition begins,
inspiration is already on the decline."
That I believe is as true as it is beautiful. The best poetry is
written in a sudden rapture, and probably needs but little
reconsideration or retouching. One knows for instance how the _Ode to
the Nightingale_ was scribbled by Keats on a spring morning, in an
orchard at Hampstead, and so little regarded that it was rescued by a
friend from the volume into which he had crammed the slips of
manuscript. Of course poets vary greatly in their method; but one may
be sure of this, that no poem which was not a great poem in its first
transcript, ever becomes a great poem by subsequent handling. There
are poets indeed like Rossetti and FitzGerald who made a worse poem
out of a better by scrupulous correction; and the first drafts of
great poems are generally the finest poems of all. A poem has
sometimes been improved by excision, notably in the case of Tennyson,
whose abandoned stanzas, printed in his Life, show how strong his
instinct was for what was best and purest. A great poet, for instance,
never, like a lesser poet, keeps an unsatisfactory stanza for the sake
of a good line. Tennyson, in a fine homely image, said that a poem
must have a certain curve of its own, like the curve of the rind of a
pared apple thrown on the floor. It must have a perfect evolution and
progress, and this can sometimes be best arrived at by the omission
of stanzas in which the inconstant or flagging mind turned aside from
its design.
But it is certain that if the poet gets so much into the habit of
writing poetry, that even when he has no sense of inspiration he must
still write to satisfy a craving, the result will be worthless, as it
too often was in the case of Wordsworth. Because such poems become
literary instead of poetical; and literary poetry has no
justification.
If we take a book like Rossetti's _House of Life_, we shall find that
certain sonnets stand out with a peculiar freshness and brightness, as
in the golden sunlight of an autumn morning; while many of the sonnets
give us the sense of slow and gorgeous evolution, as if contrived by
some poetical machine. I was interested to find, in studying the
_House of Life_ carefully, that all the finest poems are early work;
and when I came to look at the manuscripts, I was rather horrified to
see what an immense amount of alternatives had been produced. There
would be, for instance, no less than eight or nine of those great
slowly moving words, like 'incommunicable' or 'importunate' written
down, not so much to express an inevitable idea as to fill an
inevitable space; and thus the poems seem to lose their pungency by
the slow absorption of painfully sought agglutinations of syllables,
with a stately music of their own, of course, but garnered rather than
engendered. Rossetti's great dictum about the prime necessity for
poetry being 'fundamental brainwork' led him here into error. The
brainwork must be fundamental and instinctive; it must all have been
done before the poem is conceived; and very often a poet acquires his
power through sacrificing elaborate compositions which have taught him
certainty of touch, but are not in themselves great poetry. Subsequent
brainwork often merely clouds the effect, and it was that on which
Rossetti spent himself in vain.
The view which Keats took of his own _Endymion_ is a far larger and
bolder one. "I will write independently," he said. "I have written
independently _without judgment_. I may write independently and _with
judgment_ hereafter. The genius of poetry must work out its own
salvation in a man. It cannot be matured by law and precept, but by
sensation and watchfulness in itself."
Of course, fine craftsmanship is an absolute necessity; but it is
craftsmanship which is not only acquired by practice, but which is
actually there from the first, just as Mozart, as a child of eight,
could play passages which would tax the skill of the most accomplished
virtuoso. It was not learnt by practice, that swift correspondence of
eye and hand, any more than the little swallow learns to fly; it knows
it all already, and is merely finding out what it knows.
And therefore there is no doubt that a man cannot become a poet by
taking thought. He can perhaps compose impressive verse, but that is
all. Poetry is, as Plato says, a divine sort of experience, some
strange blending of inherited characteristics, perhaps the fierce
emotion of some dumb ancestress combining with the verbal skill of
some unpoetical forefather. The receipt is unknown, not necessarily
unknowable.
Of course if one has poetry in one's soul, it is a tremendous
temptation to desire its expression, because the human race, with its
poignant desire for transfiguring visions, strews the path of the
great poet with bays, and remembers him as it remembers no other human
beings. What would one not give to interpret life thus, to flash the
loveliness of perception into desirous minds, to set love and hope
and yearning to music, to inspire anxious hearts with the sense that
there is something immensely large, tender, and significant behind it
all! That is what we need to be assured of--our own significance, our
own share in the inheritance of joy; and a poet can teach us to wait,
to expect, to arise, to adore, when the circumstances of our lives are
wrapped in mist and soaked with dripping rain. Perhaps that is the
greatest thing which poetry does for us, to reassure us, to enlighten
us, to send us singing on our way, to bid us trust in God even though
He is concealed behind calamity and disaster, behind grief and
heaviness, misinterpreted to us by philosophers and priests, and
horribly belied by the wrongful dealings of men.
VI
ART AND MORALITY
There is a perpetual debate going on--one of those moulting
shuttlecocks that serve to make one's battledore give out a merry
sound--about the relation of art to morals, and whether the artist or
the poet ought to attempt to _teach_ anything. It makes a good kind of
debate, because it is conducted in large terms, to which the
disputants attach private meanings. The answer is a very simple one.
It is that art and morality are only beauty realised in different
regions; and as to whether the artist ought to attempt to teach
anything, that may be summarily answered by the simple dictum that no
artist ought ever to attempt to teach anything, with which must be
combined the fact that no one who is serious about anything can
possibly help teaching, whether he wishes or no!
High art and high morality are closely akin, because they are both but
an eager following of the law of beauty; but the artist follows it in
visible and tangible things, and the moralist follows it in the
conduct and relations of life. Artists and moralists must be for ever
condemned to misunderstand each other, because the votary of any art
cannot help feeling that it is the one thing worth doing in the world;
and the artist whose soul is set upon fine hues and forms thinks that
conduct must take care of itself, and that it is a tiresome business
to analyse and formulate it; while the moralist who loves the beauty
of virtue passionately, will think of the artist as a child who plays
with his toys, and lets the real emotions of life go streaming past.
This is a subject upon which it is as well to hear the Greeks, because
the Greeks were of all people who ever lived the most absorbingly
interested in the problems of life, and judged everything by a
standard of beauty. The Jews, of course, at least in their early
history, had the same fiery interest in questions of conduct; but it
would be as absurd to deny to Plato an interest in morals as to
withhold the title of artist from Isaiah and the author of the Book
of Job!
Plato, as is well known, took a somewhat whimsical view of the work of
the poet. He said that he must exclude the poets from his ideal State,
because they were the prophets of unreality. But he was thinking of a
kind of man very different from the men whom we call poets. He thought
of the poet as a man who served a patron, and tried to gloze over his
patron's tyranny and baseness, under false terms of glory and majesty;
or else he thought of dramatists, and considered them to be men who
for the sake of credit and money played skilfully upon the sentimental
emotions of ordinary people; and he fought shy of the writers who used
tragic passions for the amusement of a theatre. Aristotle disagreed
with Plato about this, and held that poetry was not exactly moral
teaching, but that it disposed the mind to consider moral problems as
interesting. He said that in looking on at a play, a spectator
suffered, so to speak, by deputy, but all the same learned directly,
if unconsciously, the beauty of virtue. When we come to our own
Elizabethans, there is no evidence that in their plays and poetry they
thought about morals at all. No one has any idea whether Shakespeare
had any religion, or what it was; and he above all great writers that
ever lived seems to have taken an absolutely impersonal view of the
sins and affections of men and women. No one is scouted or censured or
condemned in Shakespeare; one sees and feels the point of view of his
villains and rogues; one feels with them that they somehow could
hardly have done otherwise than they did; and to effect that is
perhaps the crown of art.
But nowadays the poet, with whom one may include some few novelists,
is really a very independent person. I am not now speaking of those
who write basely and crudely, to please a popular taste. They have
their reward; and after all they are little more than mountebanks, the
end of whose show is to gather up pence in the ring.
But the poet in verse is listened to by few people, unless he is very
great indeed; and even so his reward is apt to be intangible and
scanty; while to be deliberately a lesser poet is perhaps the most
unworldly thing that a man can do, because he thus courts derision;
indeed, if there is a bad sign of the world's temper just now, it is
that men will listen to politicians, scientists, men of commerce, and
journalists, because these can arouse a sensation, or even confer
material benefits; but men will not listen to poets, because they have
so little use for the small and joyful thoughts that make up some of
the best pleasures of life.
It is quite true, as I have said, that no artist ought ever
deliberately to try to teach people, because that is not his business,
and one can only be a good artist by minding one's business, which is
to produce beautiful things; and the moment one begins to try to
produce improving things, one goes off the line. But in England there
has been of late a remarkable fusion of morality and art. Ruskin and
Browning are clear enough proof that it is possible to be passionately
interested in moral problems in an artistic way; while at the same
time it is true, as I have said, that if any man cares eagerly for
beauty, and does his best to present it, he cannot help teaching all
those who are searching for beauty, and only require to be shown the
way.
The work of all real teachers is to make great and arduous things seem
simple and desirable and beautiful. A teacher is not a person who
provides short-cuts to knowledge, or who only drills a character out
of slovenly intellectual faults. The essence of all real teaching is a
sort of inspiration. Take the case of a great teacher, like Arnold or
Jowett; Arnold lit in his pupils' minds a kind of fire, which was
moral rather than intellectual; Jowett had a power of putting a
suggestive brilliancy into dull words and stale phrases, showing that
they were but the crystallised formulas of ideas, which men had found
wonderful or beautiful. The secret of such teaching is quite
incommunicable, but it is a very high sort of art. There are many men
who feel the inspiration of knowledge very deeply, and follow it
passionately, who yet cannot in the least communicate the glow to
others. But just as the great artist can paint a homely scene, such as
we have seen a hundred times, and throw into it something mysterious,
which reaches out hands of desire far beyond the visible horizon, so
can a great teacher show that ideas are living things all bound up
with the high emotions of men.
And thus the true poet, whether he writes verses or novels, is the
greatest of teachers, not because he trains and drills the mind, but
because he makes the thing he speaks of appear so beautiful and
desirable that we are willing to undergo the training and drilling
that are necessary to be made free of the secret. He brings out, as
Plato beautifully said, "the beauty which meets the spirit like a
breeze, and imperceptibly draws the soul, even in childhood, into
harmony with the beauty of reason." The work of the poet then is "to
elicit the simplest principles of life, to clear away complexity, by
giving a glowing and flashing motive to live nobly and generously, to
renew the unspoiled growth of the world, to reveal the secret hope
silently hidden in the heart of man."
_Renovabitur ut aquila juventus tua_--thy youth shall be renewed as an
eagle--that is what we all desire! Indeed it would seem at first sight
that, to gain happiness, the best way would be, if one could, to
prolong the untroubled zest of childhood, when everything was
interesting and exciting, full of novelty and delight. Some few people
by their vitality can retain that freshness of spirit all their life
long. I remember how a friend of R. L. Stevenson told me, that
Stevenson, when alone in London, desperately ill, and on the eve of a
solitary voyage, came to see him; he himself was going to start on a
journey the following day, and had to visit the lumber-room to get out
his trunks; Stevenson begged to be allowed to accompany him, and,
sitting on a broken chair, evolved out of the drifted accumulations of
the place a wonderful romance. But that sort of eager freshness we
most of us find to be impossible as we grow older; and we are
confronted with the problem of how to keep care and dreariness away,
how to avoid becoming mere trudging wayfarers, dully obsessed by all
we have to do and bear. Can we not find some medicine to revive the
fading emotion, to renew the same sort of delight in new thoughts and
problems which we found in childhood in all unfamiliar things, to
battle with the dreariness, the daily use, the staleness of life?
The answer is that it is possible, but only possible if we take the
same pains about it that we take to provide ourselves with comforts,
to save money, to guard ourselves from poverty. Emotional poverty is
what we most of us have to dread, and we must make investments if we
wish for revenues. We are many of us hampered, as I have said, by the
dreariness and dulness of the education we receive. But even that is
no excuse for sinking into melancholy bankruptcy, and going about the
world full of the earnest capacity for woe, disheartened and
disheartening.
A great teacher has the extraordinary power, not only of evoking the
finest capacities from the finest minds, but of actually giving to
second-rate minds a belief that knowledge is interesting and worth
attention. What we have to do, if we have missed coming under the
influence of a great teacher, is resolutely to put ourselves in touch
with great minds. We shall not burst into flame at once perhaps, and
the process may seem but the rubbing of one dry stick against another;
one cannot prescribe a path, because we must advance upon the slender
line of our own interests; but we can surely find some one writer who
revives us and inspires us; and if we persevere, we find the path
slowly broadening into a road, while the landscape takes shape and
design around us. The one thing fortunately of which there is enough
and to spare in the world is good advice, and if we find ourselves
helpless, we can consult some one who seems to have a view of finer
things, whose delight is fresh and eager, whose handling of life
seems gracious and generous. It is as possible to do this, as to
consult a doctor if we find ourselves out of health; and here we stiff
and solitary Anglo-Saxons are often to blame, because we cannot bring
ourselves to speak freely of these things, to be importunate, to ask
for help; it seems to us at once impertinent and undignified; but it
is this sort of dreary consideration, which is nothing but distorted
vanity, and this still drearier dignity, which withholds from us so
much that is beautiful.
The one thing then that I wish to urge is that we should take up the
pursuit in an entirely practical way; as Emerson said, with a splendid
mixture of common sense and idealism, "hitch our waggon to a star." It
is easy enough to lose ourselves in a vague sentimentalism, and to
believe that only our cramped conditions have hindered us from
developing into something very wonderful. It is easy too to drift into
helpless materialism, and to believe that dulness is the natural lot
of man. But the realm of thought is a very free citizenship, and a
hundred doors will open to us if we only knock at them. Moreover, that
realm is not like an over-populated country; it is infinitely large,
and virgin soil; and we have only to stake out our claim; and then, if
we persevere, we shall find that our _Joyous Gard_ is really rising
into the air about us--where else should we build our castles?--with
all the glory of tower and gable, of curtain-wall and battlement,
terrace and pleasaunce, hall and corridor; our own self-built
paradise; and then perhaps the knight, riding lonely from the sunset
woods, will turn in to keep us company, and the wandering minstrel
will bring his harp; and we may even receive other visitors, like the
three that stood beside the tent of Abraham in the evening, in the
plain of Mamre, of whom no one asked the name or lineage, because the
answer was too great for mortal ears to hear.
VII
INTERPRETATION
Is the secret of life then a sort of literary rapture, a princely
thing, only possible through costly outlay and jealously selected
hours, like a concert of stringed instruments, whose players are
unknown, bursting on the ear across the terraces and foliaged walls of
some enchanted garden? By no means! That is the shadow of the artistic
nature, that the rare occasions of life, where sound and scent and
weather and sweet companionship conspire together, are so exquisite,
so adorable, that the votary of such mystical raptures begins to plan
and scheme and hunger for these occasions, and lives in discontent
because they arrive so seldom.
No art, no literature, are worth anything at all unless they send one
back to life with a renewed desire to taste it and to live it.
Sometimes as I sit on a sunny day writing in my chair beside the
window, a picture of the box-hedge, the tall sycamores, the
stone-tiled roof of the chapel, with the blue sky behind, globes
itself in the lense of my spectacles, so entrancingly beautiful, that
it is almost a disappointment to look out on the real scene. We like
to see things mirrored thus and framed, we strangely made creatures of
life; why, I know not, except that our finite little natures love to
select and isolate experiences from the mass, and contemplate them so.
But we must learn to avoid this, and to realise that if a particle of
life, thus ordered and restricted, is beautiful, the thing itself is
more beautiful still. But we must not depend helplessly upon the
interpretations, the skilled reflections, of finer minds than our own.
If we learn from a wise interpreter or poet the quality and worth of a
fraction of life, it is that we may gain from him the power to do the
same for ourselves elsewhere; we must learn to walk alone, not crave,
like a helpless child, to be for ever led and carried in kindly arms.
The danger of culture, as it is unpleasantly called, is that we get to
love things because poets have loved them, and as they loved them;
and there we must not stay; because we thus grow to fear and mistrust
the strong flavours and sounds of life, the joys of toil and
adventure, the desire of begetting, giving life, drawing a soul from
the unknown; we come to linger in a half-lit place, where things reach
us faintly mellowed, as in a vision, through enfolding trees and at
the ends of enchanted glades. This book of mine lays no claim to be a
pageant of all life's joys; it leaves many things untouched and
untold; but it is a plea for this; that those who have to endure the
common lot of life, who cannot go where they would, whose leisure is
but a fraction of the day, before the morning's toil and after the
task is done, whose temptation it is to put everything else away
except food and sleep and work and anxiety, not liking life so but
finding it so;--it is a plea that such as these should learn how
experience, even under cramped conditions, may be finely and
beautifully interpreted, and made rich by renewed intention. Because
the secret lies hid in this, that we must observe life intently,
grapple with it eagerly; and if we have a hundred lives before us, we
can never conquer life till we have learned to ride above it, not
welter helplessly below it. And the cramped and restricted life is all
the grander for this, that it gives us a nobler chance of conquest
than the free, liberal, wealthy, unrestrained life.
In the _Romaunt of the Rose_ a little square garden is described, with
its beds of flowers, its orchard-trees. The beauty of the place lies
partly in its smallness, but more still in its running waters, its
shadowy wells, wherein, as the writer says quaintly enough, are "_no
frogs_," and the conduit-pipes that make a "noise full-liking." And
again in that beautiful poem of Tennyson's, one of his earliest, with
the dew of the morning upon it, he describes _The Poet's Mind_ as a
garden:
In the middle leaps a fountain
Like sheet lightning,
Ever brightening
With a low melodious thunder;
All day and all night it is ever drawn
From the brain of the purple mountain
Which stands in the distance yonder:...
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above,
And it sings a song of undying love.
That is a power which we all have, in some degree, to draw into our
souls, or to set running through them, the streams of Heaven--for
like water they will run in the dullest and darkest place if only they
be led thither; and the lower the place, the stronger the stream! I am
careful not to prescribe the source too narrowly, for it must be to
our own liking, and to our own need. And so I will not say "love this
and that picture, read this and that poet!" because it is just thus,
by following direction too slavishly, that we lose our own particular
inspiration. Indeed I care very little about fineness of taste,
fastidious critical rejections, scoffs and sneers at particular
fashions and details. One knows the epicure of life, the man who
withdraws himself more and more from the throng, cannot bear to find
himself in dull company, reads fewer and fewer books, can hardly eat
and drink unless all is exactly what he approves; till it becomes
almost wearisome to be with him, because it is such anxious and
scheming work to lay out everything to please him, and because he will
never take his chance of anything, nor bestir himself to make anything
out of a situation which has the least commonness or dulness in it. Of
course only with the command of wealth is such life possible; but the
more delicate such a man grows, the larger and finer his maxims
become, and the more he casts away from his philosophy the need of
practising anything. One must think, such men say, clearly and finely,
one must disapprove freely, one must live only with those whom one can
admire and love; till they become at last like one of those sad
ascetics, who spent their time on the top of pillars, and for ever
drew up stones from below to make the pillar higher yet.
One is at liberty to mistrust whatever makes one isolated and
superior; not of course that one's life need be spent in a sort of
diffuse sociability; but one must practise an ease that is never
embarrassed, a frankness that is never fastidious, a simplicity that
is never abashed; and behind it all must spring the living waters,
with the clearness of the sky and the cleanness of the hill about
them, running still swiftly and purely in our narrow garden-ground,
and meeting the kindred streams that flow softly in many other glad
and desirous hearts.
In the beautiful old English poem, _The Pearl_, where the dreamer
seems to be instructed
|
." He made
good time to his uncle's office, and found Mr. Dexter rather anxiously
waiting for him.
"Oh, you have them, I see!" exclaimed Mr. Dexter as he took the bundle
of papers from his nephew. "Mr. Sheldon was there all right, I take it?"
"Yes, and he said he'd attend to the other matters. But these must be
signed before two witnesses by three o'clock."
"I know it, Bob. I'll attend to it right away. You had no other trouble,
did you--I mean no one stopped you to ask to look at the papers--or
anything like that?" Mr. Dexter seemed anxious and nervous.
"No, I wasn't exactly stopped," Bob answered. "But there was an old man
with a box who wanted me to take him to Storm Mountain."
"What sort of a man, Bob?" eagerly asked his uncle.
Bob described the individual, and a look of relief came over Mr.
Dexter's face.
"It isn't any one I know," he said. "I guess it's all right, Bob. You
may go now. Thanks for attending to this for me. I can look after
matters now."
"Then I'll go to the ball game," announced Bob.
He was on his way to the park, taking a short cut along a back road
when, in a lonely spot he saw a huddled figure lying beside the road.
"It's a man!" exclaimed Bob, as he stopped his machine and jumped out.
"The man with the box--looks as if he'd been killed!"
*CHAPTER II*
*THE LOG CABIN*
Bob Dexter, young as he was, had been through too many strenuous
experiences to be turned aside at the thought of a dead man. Besides,
this was right in the line of Bob's ambition, if you get my meaning.
That is, he had fully determined to become a detective, and here seemed
right at hand a mystery that needed solving. He was first on the
scene--a most advantageous thing from a detective's standpoint.
"I've got to keep my wits about me," thought the lad to himself as he
approached the prostrate man who lay suspiciously still and quiet in the
grass beside the lonely road.
And while Bob is getting ready to solve what he hopes may be a most
baffling mystery, perhaps it would be just as well if I told my new
readers a little about the youth who is to figure as the hero of this
story.
Bob Dexter's father and mother died when he was quite young, and his
uncle Joel Dexter agreed to care for the lad and bring him up as his own
son. Uncle Joel and his wife Aunt Hannah had faithfully kept their
promise, and Bob could not have asked for a better home nor for more
loving care than he received.
But though loving and kind, Mr. Dexter insisted on Bob "toeing the
mark," as he called it in the matter of work and duties, including
attending school. Bob's uncle was "well fixed" as regards this world's
goods, though not exactly a man of wealth. He was interested in several
businesses in Cliffside, including a hardware store he owned. He also
loaned money on mortgages and kept a private office over the First
National Bank, in which enterprise he was said to own several shares.
Thus Bob grew from boyhood to young manhood, and when he began to
develop a taste for detective stories, and, not only that but a desire
to solve local crimes and mysteries, Uncle Joel rather "put his foot
down," as he expressed it.
However, when Bob scored a point on the Cliffside police, by finding
Jennie Thorp, who, it was supposed, had been kidnaped (though she
wasn't) Bob's stock went up several points. And when, as I have told you
in the first volume of this series, entitled "Bob Dexter and the Club
House Mystery," the youth solved the secret of the Golden Eagle, well,
then Uncle Joel "drew in his horns," as his wife said, and Bob
"detected" to his heart's content.
The Golden Eagle was the mascot of the Boys' Athletic Club, and when it
vanished there was a great deal of astonishment, which only subsided
when Bob got the eagle back.
Following that, in the volume just preceding this one, called "Bob
Dexter and the Beacon Beach Mystery," the lad added other laurels.
He and his chums, Ned and Harry, had gone camping at Beacon Beach for
their summer vacation. Almost as soon as they arrived they were
enveloped in a mystery which did not end until Bob had found out why the
beacon in the lighthouse went out so often, and until he had learned
what the "yellow boys" were in the wreck of the _Sea Hawk_.
"And now I seem to be up against something else," murmured Bob, as he
approached the prostrate man in the grass, and caught sight of the
brass-bound box lying near his motionless hand. "Just got back from the
Beacon Beach trouble and I run into this. Well, the more the better for
me--though I hope this poor old chap isn't dead!"
He wasn't, as Bob soon discovered. The man was breathing, and when the
lad had dashed into his face some water from a nearby spring, and had
poured between the stranger's lips some from a cup Bob carried in his
car for use in filling his storage battery, the man opened his eyes,
looked at the youth and cried:
"Did he get it?"
"Did who get what?" Bob wanted to know.
The man's eyes wildly roved the ground about him, and, lighting on the
box he breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out a hand, drew the little
chest to him and then, slipping it under his legs as he sat up on the
ground he put both hands to the back of his head.
"Um!" he murmured, with a wince of pain. "Quite a lump there. Big as a
hen's egg, I guess. Would you mind taking a look, young feller, and
seeing how badly I'm cut? Though I guess I'm not cut at all," he went
on, as he looked at his fingers and saw no sign of blood.
"No, you aren't cut," said Bob, taking a look as requested. "But what
happened to you? Did you fall?"
"Sort of," admitted the man with a half smile. "But I reckon I was
tapped on the head first, or else struck with a rock to help in the
falling business. Though they didn't dare take it after they knocked me
out. Rod Marbury's nerve must have failed him in the pinch. So much the
better for me. I told him I'd play fair, but he hasn't. Now he can
whistle for his share! He can whistle for a wind that he'll never get!"
and the old man, who looked but a few degrees removed from a tramp,
started to get up.
"Better wait a minute," advised Bob kindly. "You've been knocked out. If
you rest a bit longer, and take some more water you'll feel stronger."
"Oh, I'm all right, young feller!" was the answer, and the man's actions
and voice betokened that he was almost his vigorous self again. "It
takes more than a knock on the head with a belaying pin to do for old
Hiram Beegle. I'm all right. Rod didn't get the box, and that's what he
was after. Did you see anything of him?"
"Of whom?" Bob wanted to know.
"Of Rodney Marbury, the slickest chap I ever dealt with. He's cute, Rod
is, but his nerve failed him at the last minute, even after he knocked
me out. He must have been hiding in the bushes and heaved a rock out at
me as I went by. Then I passed out and he must have been frightened away
by hearing you coming along."
"It's possible that he did," admitted Bob. "My old machine rattles
enough to be heard a long distance. But I didn't see anybody running
away from you."
"You didn't, eh?" asked Hiram Beegle, for that, evidently, was his name.
"Well, very likely he run the other way so he wouldn't meet you. But I'm
much obliged to you, and now I'll be on my way."
He got to his feet and stowed the box under his left arm. Then he looked
about and found a stout cudgel which he grasped in his right hand. He
was the vigorous figure of a man now, ready for a fray.
"Excuse me," said Bob, "but didn't I see you down at the station a
little while ago?"
"Yes, I was there. I asked some young feller to give me a lift to Storm
Mountain, but----"
"You asked me," spoke Bob with a smile. "I'm sorry, but I had an
important engagement just then and couldn't spare the time to take you."
"Hum! Yes, you're the same chap," said Mr. Beegle, looking critically at
Bob. "I don't blame you a bit. Business first always--that's a good
rule. I waited for one of them taxi fellers like you told me to, but
they wanted ten dollars to take me to Storm Mountain. I said I wanted to
_hire_ one of their cars, not _buy_ it, and they laughed at me."
"Ten dollars was too much," observed Bob, looking at his watch, and
trying to decide if he could make the baseball park in time to see the
end of the big game. He wanted to do the Samaritan act, also, in looking
after this stranger, for he did not think it either kind or wise to let
him go off by himself on the five mile tramp.
"It was about eight dollars too much," said the old man. "I would be
willing to pay two, but not ten. Well, I can walk it."
"No," said Bob, coming to a sudden decision, "I'll take you. I have a
car and I've got nothing important to do now." He had a somewhat selfish
motive in making this offer--he wanted to find out more about Hiram
Beegle and about Rod Marbury. He wanted to know what valuables the box
contained, and why the attack had been made.
"Well, it's mighty decent of you to want to give me a lift," said Mr.
Beegle. "I take it right kind of you. But if you do take me to my cabin
I want to pay you. I'll give you two dollars."
"I don't want your money," laughed Bob.
"Then I won't ride with you!" The old man was very firm about this.
"Hiram Beegle can pay his way--there are a few shots left in the locker
yet, and if things go right I'll be rich some day," and he shook the
brass-bound box, "I'll pay you two dollars or I'll walk!" he concluded
with a shake of his grizzled head.
"Oh, well, have it your own way," chuckled the lad. "I'm in neither the
taxi nor jitney business, but I'll take your money, though it won't take
that much gasolene or oil to put you in Storm Mountain. Where in the
town do you live?"
"I don't live in the town, exactly," said the old man. "I live all alone
in a log cabin up on the side of the mountain. It's a fairly good road
there, or I wouldn't let you take your car up it."
"A flivver can go anywhere!" said Bob.
"Yes, I reckon they can. Well, I'm much obliged to you--both for coming
along and scaring away Rod Marbury after he knocked me out, and for
giving me a lift."
"I'm not sure I scared away any one," said Bob. "I didn't see any one at
all. I was coming along the road and saw you stretched out."
"Yes, I was stretched out, all right," chuckled Mr. Beegle, who seemed
to have quite recovered now, except for the lump on the back of his
head. "And I didn't exactly see Rod myself. But I'd be willing to wager
a marlin spike to a rope's end that he had a hand in it."
Mr. Beegle headed for Bob's machine, the engine of which was still
running, but before starting off with the old man the young detective
bethought him that he had better make a few inquiries.
"Look here, Mr. Beegle," said the lad frankly, "I'm very glad to be able
to help you and give you a lift, but I must know that this is all
straight. I don't want to find out afterward that I've been taking part
in a crime."
"A crime, what do you mean?" the old man seemed indignant.
"I mean there's been violence done to you. You carry something you
intimate is valuable," and Bob nodded toward the box. "You say some one
tried to get it away from you. Now has there been a robbery--is that
part of the spoil and is there a fight over the division of it? I have a
right to know before I take you to Storm Mountain."
Mr. Beegle seemed greatly surprised and then a smile came over his
grizzled face.
"Young man, you're right!" he exclaimed. "You have a right to know
certain things. But I'll tell you at once there has been no robbery. I
came into possession of this box in a legal way, though some one would
be glad to get it away from me. I inherited this. Here, I'll prove it to
you. Do you know Judge Weston?"
"The lawyer? Of course I do!" exclaimed Bob.
"Then stop at his office on the way to my cabin. Judge Weston will tell
you how I came by this box. I'll not say another word until you talk to
Judge Weston."
Bob felt a trifle mean at seeming to doubt the old man's word, but he
felt he had a right to be assured that everything was all right. So,
accordingly, he drove to the office of the lawyer, who had once been a
county judge, the title still clinging to him as such titles will.
"Hello, Mr. Beegle, back again!" greeted the lawyer, as Bob and his new
friend entered. "Wasn't everything in the box all right?"
"Why, yes, Judge, I think so," was the answer. "I only took a casual
look inside, but all the papers seem to be there. But I ran into a
little trouble after leaving your office," and he told of the assault on
him. "Then this young feller comes along," resumed Hiram Beegle, "and
offers to take me home. But he wants to be sure I didn't steal this
box," and Mr. Beegle chuckled.
"No, I can testify to that," said Judge Weston with a smile. "You came
into possession of it rightfully and legally. I can see Bob's point
though, and it is well taken, you being a stranger to him.
"But it's all right, Bob. I handed this box to Mr. Beegle about two
hours ago. He inherited it under the will of Hank Denby, a client of
mine who died in Fayetteville about a month ago. I have been settling up
the Denby estate--what there was of it--and this box comes to Mr.
Beegle. I just turned it over to him."
"And Rod Marbury didn't have a share in it--did he?" asked the old man.
"He was not mentioned in Mr. Denby's will," was the lawyer's answer. "In
fact, I know nothing of this Rod Marbury except what you have told me,
Mr. Beegle. And you told me in confidence so I cannot reveal that."
"Oh, I don't want to know any more!" broke in Bob. "I just wanted to
know, after I heard there was a fight over the possession of this box,
that Mr. Beegle had a right to it. Now I'll take him home."
"That's very kind of you, Bob," said the former judge. "You have my word
that everything is all right, as far as Mr. Beegle's legal possession of
that box is concerned."
"Well, are you satisfied?" asked the old man.
"Perfectly," answered the young detective. And he made up his mind that
if there was a further mystery in the matter he would try to solve it
later.
"Then let's pull up our mud hook," went on Mr. Beegle. "It's getting
late and I'd like soon to be back safe in my log cabin. Much obliged to
you, Judge."
"Don't mention it. The case is now closed as far as I am concerned."
As Bob drove his machine out through Cliffside, in the direction of
Storm Mountain, he saw some of his friends coming home from the ball
game.
"Who won?" he called to Fred Merton.
"We did, eight to six!"
"Wow! Good enough!"
The lad and his old companion were soon on a quiet country road. Mr.
Beegle had not talked a great deal, occasionally putting his hand up to
his injured head.
"Does it hurt much?" asked Bob. "Had you better stop and see a doctor?"
"No, thanks. I'll be all right. I'm not going to give Marbury another
chance at me."
"Do you think he might try to waylay you again?" asked Bob, not a little
apprehensive of being in the companionship of a man against whom, it was
evident, some one had a grudge.
"Oh, he won't get me now," was the chuckled answer. "I've got the
weather gage on him all right. We'll soon be at my place."
Storm Mountain was a small village at the foot of the mountain bearing
that name, and Bob soon was driving through it, taking the turns pointed
out by Mr. Beegle who sat beside him.
"The next turn to the left is the road that leads to my place," said the
old man, pointing ahead. They were on a quiet stretch of country
thoroughfare, steadily ascending the grade. The flivver puffed and
wheezed, but kept on going.
"Here we are--my shack!" exclaimed Mr. Beegle a little later, after the
turn had been made into a sort of dirt lane. "Now I'm all right."
Bob saw before him a small log cabin, rather neat and trim, with a
flower garden in front, or, rather, the remains of one, for it was now
October. And in the rear were standing some lima bean poles and shocks
of dried corn.
Hiram Beegle leaped out of the flivver and stood still for a moment. He
looked fixedly at the log cabin and then in a low voice said to Bob:
"Would you mind waiting here a moment?"
"No. What for?" inquired the lad.
"Well, I just want to make sure nobody's hiding in there to give me
another knock on the head. I've been away all day--the place has been
shut up. It's just possible----"
"I'll wait until you see if it's all right," said Bob, as the old man
began a cautious approach toward his cabin.
*CHAPTER III*
*STARTLING NEWS*
Since noon that day so many things had happened in Bob Dexter's life
that as he watched the old man walk toward the log cabin, the lad was
almost prepared for something else of a startling nature.
To begin with there had been that hurried trip to the train to get the
important papers from Mr. Sheldon. And then there had been his Uncle
Joel's fear lest some one might have tried to get the documents away
from Bob.
Followed then his discovery of Hiram Beegle, knocked out at the side of
the road, after the young detective's encounter with him at the railroad
station, and mixed up with this was the mystery of the brass-bound box,
the vindictive Rod Marbury and the lawyer's guarantee as to Hiram's
legal right to the little chest.
And now, on top of this, some enemy might burst forth from the lonely
log cabin.
But Bob was spared this last act, though as a matter of fact the strong,
healthy and excitement-loving young detective would have welcomed
something more to bring the day to a fitting close.
However, nothing happened. For after Hiram Beegle had cautiously scouted
about the cabin for several minutes he unlocked the door, swung it back
and himself jumped to one side, flattening his body out against the side
of the cabin.
Bob almost wanted to laugh at this--it was like something in a moving
picture melodrama. Doubtless the old man had good reason for his
caution, but there was no need of it. No one leaped out at him, there
was no shooting and no flashing of a thrown knife.
All was peace and quietness.
"It's just as well to be on the safe side," remarked Mr. Beegle as he
stepped away from the side of the cabin and prepared to enter it. "No
telling what Rod might be up to. Now, young man, I'll pay you off, say
much obliged and give you a drink of buttermilk right cold out of my
spring house if you'll take it."
"Thanks," answered Bob. "I'm very fond of buttermilk, but I'd rather not
take your money," for the old man passed over two one dollar bills.
"You got to take it--that was the bargain. And if you'll come in and sit
down a minute I'll get you the buttermilk. I buy it off Jason Studder,
down the road, and keep it cool in the spring. But first I'll just take
care of this. I've had trouble enough to get it, and I don't want to
lose it again."
Bob followed the old man into the long cabin. Hiram Beegle carried the
box under his arm, and without setting it down he went to a cupboard in
the wall and thrust in his hand. There was a sort of clicking sound, as
if machinery was operating and Bob started.
Well he might, for close beside him, as he stood near a wall of the log
cabin--a wall made of smooth boards--a sort of secret panel dropped,
revealing a little recess or hiding place. And in this niche was a large
brass key.
"It isn't every one I let see the place I keep the key to my strong
room," chuckled the old man. "But I trust you and Judge Weston. Rod
Marbury could search a week and never find this, I'm thinking."
"I'm not so sure of that," replied Bob. "I think I could get at it."
"No, you couldn't--not even knowing that there's a catch in this
cupboard," challenged Mr. Beegle. "Here, you try it."
He closed the dropped panel, leaving the big brass key in the niche, and
then waved his hand toward the cupboard beside the fireplace--an
invitation to Bob to try.
The young detective could not see much in the cupboard--it was too
small--but he felt about with trained fingers. He found a number of
knobs and catches, but pressing and pulling on them one after another,
and on several at the same time, produced no effect.
"You couldn't work it in a year unless you knew how," boasted the old
man. "Of course you could tear the cabin apart and find the key that
way--but it would take time."
Once more, after Bob's failure, Hiram put his hand within the cupboard
and an instant later the secret panel dropped. So cleverly was the
hidden niche made and so closely did the sliding panel fit into place,
that not even with his sharp eyes could Bob see where the joining was in
the wall, after the niche had been closed again.
For the old man closed it after taking out the brass key. And with this
key in one hand, and the mysterious box in the other, he approached a
small inner door.
"This is what I call my strong room," he said to Bob, as he put the
ponderous key in the lock. And it was a big key--like one that might be
part of the great lock on some prison door. There was a clicking of the
wards and tumblers of the lock, and the door was opened. It was of heavy
oak, cross planks being spiked to the inner side.
Bob had his first glimpse into a room that, soon, was to play a part in
a strange mystery. In fact, this was Bob's first view of the cabin where
Hiram Beegle lived, though he knew the cabin was situated on this road,
for he had seen it before, some years ago. Then no one lived in it, and
the place was somewhat in ruins. Now it was a most picturesque home for
the old man who lived alone in it.
Bob expected to see a sort of vault when the ponderous door swung back,
but he was rather surprised to note that the place contained a table, a
chair and a bed, in addition to a strong chest, iron-bound and fastened
with a heavy black padlock.
"Do you sleep in here, Mr. Beegle?" asked the lad and he accented the
word "sleep," so that the old man looked at him in some surprise and
remarked:
"Of course I sleep here. Why not?"
"Well, there aren't any windows in the place. How do you get fresh air?"
"Oh, that!" he laughed. "I reckon you can tell that I like fresh air as
much as anybody. I'm an outdoor man--always was. Well, I don't make a
practice of sleeping here, but when I do I get plenty of fresh air
through the fireplace," and he pointed to a hearth in the room. Bob knew
that an open fireplace is one of the best methods known of ventilating a
room.
And certainly if ever a room needed ventilation this inner one in the
lonely log cabin did, for the strong door was the only opening in it.
Not a window, not a porthole, nor so much as a crack gave on the
outside. It was a veritable vault, the chimney opening being the only
one by which a person shut in the room could save himself from
smothering.
"Yes, once I'm shut up in here not even Rod Marbury can get at me!"
chuckled Hiram Beegle.
"Couldn't he get down the chimney?" asked Bob.
"I'd like to see him try it I There's a crook in the flue and a raccoon
that once tried to get down, though why I don't know, was stuck until I
tore a hole in the outside and set the poor thing free. That's what
would happen to Rod Marbury if he tried it. No, he'd better not try to
play Santa Claus with me!" and again the old man chuckled.
While Bob looked about the room, noting how strong the walls were and
the thickness of the door, the old man opened the chest in the corner
and in it placed the brass-bound box, snapping the padlock shut after he
made his deposit.
"There!" he announced, "I guess it's all right now. It's safe! Rod
Marbury can whistle for a breeze but that's all the good it will do him.
Now for your buttermilk, young man."
"Oh, don't trouble about me!" begged Bob.
"It isn't any trouble. It's only a step to the spring and I'd like a
drink myself after what I've been through."
"Aren't you going to notify the police?" asked Bob as he preceded the
old man from the strong room, watching him turn the ponderous key in the
lock.
"Notify the police? What about?" asked Hiram Beegle.
"About the attack on you--by Rodney Marbury as you think."
"As I know, you mean, young man. But I don't need the police. I can deal
with that chap myself if need comes. But I guess he knows he's through.
He won't bother me again. Now for the buttermilk."
There was a small spring house not far from the log cabin, and from this
cool repository Hiram brought a can of rich, cool buttermilk, which was
most refreshing to Bob, for the day was hot, even though It was October.
"Well, much obliged to you, Bob Dexter," said Hiram, as Bob was about to
take his leave, having seen the big brass key deposited in the secret
niche and the panel closed. "If it's all the same to you, I'd just as
soon you wouldn't tell everybody what you've seen and heard to-day."
"I'll keep quiet about it," the lad promised.
He rode off down the mountain trail in his flivver, looking back to see
the odd but kindly old man waving a farewell to him. Bob little knew
under what circumstances he would see Hiram Beegle again.
It was late afternoon when Bob returned home, for he got a puncture when
halfway to Cliffside and had to stop to change a tire. As he drew up in
front of his house he met his two chums, Harry and Ned.
"Too bad you missed the game," remarked Ned.
"Yes," assented Bob, "I'm sorry, too."
"What did you do with Rip Van Winkle?" asked Harry.
"Rip Van Winkle?" repeated Bob, wondering.
"Yes. The old codger Fred Merton saw you with."
"Oh, Hiram Beegle," chuckled Bob. "Yes, he is a queer character," and he
told as much of the story as would not violate his promise.
"Well, I s'pose you know what you're doing," said Ned. "But from what
Fred said about this old codger I wouldn't want to meet him alone after
dark, Bob."
"Oh, he's all right," protested the young detective with a laugh. "But I
suppose there'll be great doings at the club house to-night."
"There sure will--to celebrate the game to-day. Going to be there?"
"Surest thing you know. I'll see you there. So long!"
"So long, Bob!"
The two chums went on their way and Bob went into the house after
putting his car in the barn that had been turned into a garage.
The Boys' Athletic Club had a jollification meeting that night over the
baseball victory, and the Golden Eagle mascot looked down most
approvingly from his perch to which he had been restored by the efforts
of the young detective.
"I don't believe we'd have had half such a good game out of it to-day if
it hadn't been for the Golden Eagle," remarked Ned, as he sat with his
chums, looking up at the mascot bird.
"You're right!" chimed in Harry.
"Oh, I guess you imagine a lot of that," laughed Bob. "Still, I'm glad
the old bird is back in place."
"You said it!" exclaimed his chums.
It was next morning, when Bob was on his way to his uncle's hardware
store where he now worked, that the lad met Harry and Ned.
"Did you hear the news?" cried Harry.
"What news?" asked Bob, slowing up his flivver so his chums might leap
in.
"Old Hiram Beegle was murdered last night in his cabin!" cried Ned.
*CHAPTER IV*
*WOODEN LEG*
Suspecting that his chums were playing some joke on him, though he
thought this rather a poor subject for humor, and believing that Harry
and Ned wanted to get a rise out of him, Bob Dexter did not at once show
the astonishment that was expected. Instead he merely smiled and
remarked:
"Hop in! If I believe that I s'pose you'll tell me another!"
"Say, this is straight!" cried Ned.
"No kidding!" added Harry. "The old man was killed last night. You know
who we mean--Rip Van Winkle--the old codger you took over to Storm
Mountain in this very flivver."
"Yes, I know, who you mean all right," assented Bob. "But who told you
he was killed? How, why, when, where and all the rest of it?"
"We didn't hear any of the particulars," explained Harry. "But Chief
Drayton, of the Storm Mountain police force--guess he's the whole force
as a matter of fact--Drayton just came over here to get our chief to
help solve the mystery."
"Oh, then there's a mystery about it, is there?" asked Bob, and his
chums noticed that he at once began to pay close attention to what they
were saying.
"Sure there's a mystery," asserted Ned. "Wouldn't you call it a mystery
if a man was found dead in a locked room--a room without a window in it,
and only one door, and that locked on the inside and the man dead
inside? Isn't that a mystery, Bob Dexter--just as much of a mystery as
who took our Golden Eagle?"
"Or what the 'yellow boys' were in the wreck of the _Sea Hawk_?" added
Harry.
"Sure that would be a mystery if everything is as you say it is,"
asserted Bob. "But in the first place if old Hiram Beegle has been
killed and if his body is in that room, with only one door leading into
it, how do the authorities know anything about it? Why, you can't even
see into that room when the door is shut!"
"How do you know?" asked Ned quickly.
"Because I've been in that room. I was in there yesterday afternoon with
Hiram Beegle. There is only one entrance to it and that by the door, for
the fireplace doesn't count."
"You were in that room?" cried Harry in surprise.
"Certainly I was."
"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Ned, feeling that his announcement of
the murder was as nothing compared with this news.
"Oh, well, there wasn't any need of speaking about it," said Bob.
"Well, I guess you've seen the last of Hiram Beegle," went on Harry.
"That is unless you want to go to the scene of the crime, as the _Weekly
Banner_ will put it."
"Yes, I'd like to go there," said Bob quietly. "There may be a mystery
about who killed Hiram Beegle, but to my mind there's a greater mystery
in discovering how it is Chief Drayton knows the old man was killed,
instead of, let us say, dying a natural death, if he can't get in the
room."
"Who said he couldn't get in the room?" asked Ned.
"Well, it stands to reason he can't get in the room, if the only door to
it is locked on the inside, if Hiram Beegle is dead inside; for I've
been there and you can't go down the chimney. How does the chief know
Hiram is dead?"
"You got me there," admitted Ned. "I didn't get it directly from Chief
Drayton. Tom Wilson was telling me--he heard it from some one else, I
guess."
"That's the trouble," remarked Bob as he guided the flivver around a
corner and brought it to a stop in front of his uncle's hardware store.
"There's too much second-hand talk."
"Then let's go over to Storm Mountain and get some first-hand
information!" cried Ned.
"Yes--what do you say to that?" added Harry.
Bob considered for a moment.
"I guess I can go in about an hour if you fellows can," he replied.
"Uncle Joel will let me have some time off."
"I think I can string dad so he'll let me go," remarked Ned.
"Same here," echoed Harry.
The two lads worked for their respective fathers, and the latter were
not too exacting. Bob and his chums attended High School, but owing to
the fact that the building was being repaired the usual fall term would
be two months late in opening. Hence they still had considerable of a
vacation before them, for which they were duly grateful.
Many thoughts were surging through the mind of Bob Dexter as he went
about his duties in the hardware store. It was rather a shock to him to
learn that the odd but kindly old man, with whom he had been drinking
buttermilk less than twenty-four hours ago, was now dead.
"But who killed him, and why?" mused Bob.
"He was fearfully afraid of some one he called Rod Marbury. Could that
fellow have had a hand in it? And if the old man was locked in his
strong room how could anyone get in to kill him? I should like to find
out all about this, and I'm going to."
Uncle Joel chuckled silently when Bob asked if he could be excused for
the remainder of the day.
"Going fishing, Bob?" he asked.
"No, not exactly," was the answer.
"Well, I can guess. You'll be heading for Storm Mountain, I suppose."
"Did you hear about the murder?" exclaimed the lad.
"Murder!" repeated his uncle. "I didn't hear there was a murder. Old
Hiram Beegle was badly hurt but he wasn't killed. He was robbed,
though--robbed of some treasure box he had."
"Robbed!" murmured Bob. "The treasure box! It must have been that
brass-bound little chest he had when I saw him. But are you sure he
wasn't killed, Uncle Joel?"
"Well, I'm as sure of it as I can be of anything
|
day
on a vaster scale. If we said that 'optimates' signified the men
who bribed and abused office under the banner of the Senate and its
connections, and that 'populares' meant men who bribed and abused
office with the interests of the people outside the senatorial pale
upon their lips, we might do injustice to many good men on both sides,
but should hardly be slandering the parties. Parties in fact they were
not. They were factions, and the fact that it is by no means easy
always to decide how far individuals were swayed by good or bad
motives, where good motives were so often paraded to mask base
actions, does not disguise their despicable character. Honest
optimates would wish to maintain the Senate's preponderance from
affection to it, and from belief in its being the mainstay of the
State. Honest populares, like the Gracchi, who saw the evils of
senatorial rule, tried to win the popular vote to compass its
overthrow. Dishonest politicians of either side advocated conservatism
or change simply from the most selfish personal ambition; and in time
of general moral laxity it is the dishonest politicians who give the
tone to a party. The most unscrupulous members of the ruling ring, the
most shameless panderers to mob prejudice, carry all before them. Both
seek one thing only--personal ascendency, and the State becomes the
bone over which the vilest curs wrangle.
[Sidenote: Who the equites were.] In writing of the Gracchi reference
will be made to the Equites. The name had broadened from its original
meaning, and now merely denoted all non-senatorial rich men. An
individual eques would lean to the senatorial faction or the faction
of men too poor to keep a horse for cavalry service, just as his
connexions were chiefly with the one or the other. How, as a body, the
equites veered round alternately to each side, we shall see hereafter.
Instead of forming a sound middle class to check the excesses of both
parties, they were swayed chiefly by sordid motives, and backed up
the men who for the time seemed most willing or able to gratify their
greed. What went on at Rome must have been repeated over again with
more or less exactitude throughout Italy, and there, in addition to
this process of national disintegration, the clouds of a political
storm were gathering. The following table will show at a glance the
classification of the Roman State as constituted at the outbreak of
the Social War.
_Cives Romani_:
1. Rome
2. Roman Colonies
3. Municipia
Roman Colonies and Municipia are Praefectura.
_Peregrini_:
1. Latini or Nomen Latinum
a. Old Latin towns except such as had been made Municipia
b. Colonies of old Latin towns
c. Joint colonies (if any) of Rome and old Latin towns
d. Colonies of Italians from all parts of Italy founded by Rome
under the name of Latin Colonies
2. Socii, i.e. Free inhabitants of Italy
3. Provincials, i.e. Free subjects of Rome out of Italy
[Sidenote: Rights of Cives Romani.] The Cives Romani in and out of
Rome had the Jus Suffragii and the Jus Honorum, i.e. the right to vote
and the right to hold office. [Sidenote: The Roman Colony.] A _Roman
Colony_ was in its organization Rome in miniature, and the people
among whom it had been planted as a garrison may either have retained
their own political constitution, or have been governed by a
magistrate sent from Rome. They were not Roman citizens except as
being residents of a Roman city, but by irregular marriages with
Romans the line of demarcation between the two peoples may have grown
less clearly defined. [Sidenote: The Praefectura.] _Praefectura_ was
the generic name for Roman colonies and for all Municipia to which
prefects were sent annually to administer justice. [Sidenote:
Municipia] _Municipia_ are supposed to have been originally those
conquered Italian towns to which Connubium and Commercium, i.e. rights
of intermarriage and of trade, were given, but from whom Jus Suffragii
and Jus Honorum were withheld. These privileges, however, were
conferred on them before the Social War. Some were governed by Roman
magistrates and some were self-governed. They voted in the Roman
tribes, though probably only at important crises, such as the
agitation for an agrarian law. They were under the jurisdiction of the
Praetor Urbanus, but vicarious justice was administered among them by
an official called _Praefectus juri dicundo_, sent yearly from Rome.
[Sidenote: The Latini.] The Latini had no vote at Rome, no right of
holding offices, and were practically Roman subjects. A Roman who
joined a Latin colony ceased to be a Roman citizen. Whether there was
any difference between the internal administration of a Latin colony
and an old Latin town is uncertain. The Latini may have had Commercium
and Connubium, or only the former. They certainly had not Jus
Suffragii or Jus Honorum, and they were in subjection to Rome. A Latin
could obtain the Roman franchise, but the mode of doing so at this
time is a disputed point. Livy mentions a law which enabled a Latin to
obtain the franchise by migrating to Rome and being enrolled in the
census, provided he left children behind him to fill his place. There
is no doubt that either legally or irregularly Latini did migrate to
Rome and did so obtain the citizenship, but we know no more. Others
say that the later right by which a Latin obtained the citizenship in
virtue of filling a magistracy in his native town existed already.
[Sidenote: The Socii.] Of the Socii, all or many of them had treaties
defining their relations to Rome, and were therefore known as
Foederatae Civitates. They had internal self-government, but were
bound to supply Rome with soldiers, ships, and sailors.
[Sidenote: Grievances of the Latins and allies.] At the time of the
Gracchi discontent was seething among the Latins and allies. There
were two classes among them--the rich landlords and capitalists, who
prospered as the rich at Rome prospered, and the poor who were weighed
down by debt or were pushed out of their farms by slave-labour, or
were hangers-on of the rich in the towns and eager for distributions
of land. The poor were oppressed no doubt by the rich men both of
their own cities and of Rome. The rich chafed at the intolerable
insolence of Roman officials. It was not that Rome interfered with
the local self-government she had granted by treaty, but the Italians
laboured under grievous disabilities and oppression. So late as the
Jugurthine war, Latin officers were executed by martial law, whereas
any Roman soldier could appeal to a civil tribunal. Again, while the
armies had formerly been recruited from the Romans and the allies
equally, now the severest service and the main weight of wars fell
on the latter, who furnished, moreover, two soldiers to every Roman.
Again, without a certain amount of property, a man at Rome could not
be enrolled in the army; but the rule seems not to have applied
to Italians. Nor was the civil less harsh than the military
administration. A consul's wife wished to use the men's bath at
Teanum; and because the bathers were not cleared out quickly enough,
and the baths were not clean enough, M. Marius, the chief magistrate
of the town, was stripped and scourged in the market-place. A free
herdsman asked in joke if it was a corpse that was in a litter passing
through Venusia, and which contained a young Roman. Though not even an
official, its occupant showed that, if lazy, he was at least alive, by
having the peasant whipped to death with the litter straps. In short,
the rich Italians would feel the need of the franchise as strongly as
the old plebeians had felt it, and all the more strongly because the
Romans had not only ceased to enfranchise whole communities, but were
chary of giving the citizenship even to individuals. The poor also had
the ordinary grievances against their own rich, and were so far likely
to favour the schemes of any man who assailed the capitalist class,
Roman or Italian, as a whole; but they none the less disliked Roman
supremacy, and would be easily persuaded to attribute to that
supremacy some of the hardships which it did not cause.
[Sidenote: State of the transmarine provinces.] While such fires were
slowly coming to the surface in Italy, and were soon to flame out in
the Social War, the state of the provinces out of the peninsula was
not more reassuring. The struggle with Viriathus and the Numantine war
had revealed the fact that the last place to look for high martial
honour or heroic virtue was the Roman army. If a Scipio sustained the
traditions of Roman generalship, and a Gracchus those of republican
rectitude, other commanders would have stained the military annals
of any nation. [Sidenote: Deterioration of Roman generalship.] Roman
generals had come to wage war for themselves and not for the State.
They even waged it in defiance of the State's express orders. If they
found peace in the provinces, they found means to break it, hoping to
glut their avarice by pillage or by the receipt of bribes, which it
was now quite the exception not to accept, or to win sham laurels and
cheap triumphs from some miserable raid on half-armed barbarians.
Often these carpet-knights were disgracefully beaten, though infamy in
the provinces sometimes became fame at Rome, and then they resorted
to shameful trickery repeated again and again. [Sidenote: and of the
Army.] The State and the army were worthy of the commanders. The
former engaged in perhaps the worst wars that can be waged. Hounded on
by its mercantile class, it fought not for a dream of dominion, or
to beat back encroaching barbarism, but to exterminate a commercial
rival. The latter, which it was hard to recruit on account of the
growing effeminacy of the city, it was harder still to keep under
discipline. It was followed by trains of cooks, and actors, and the
viler appendages of oriental luxury, and was learning to be satisfied
with such victories as were won by the assassination of hostile
generals, or ratified by the massacre of men who had been guaranteed
their lives. The Roman fleet was even more inefficient than the army;
and pirates roved at will over the Mediterranean, pillaging this
island, waging open war with that, and carrying off the population as
slaves. A new empire was rising in the East, as Rome permitted the
Parthians to wrest Persia, Babylonia, and Media from the Syrian kings.
The selfish maxim, _Divide et impera_, assumed its meanest form as it
was now pursued. It is a poor and cowardly policy for a great nation
to pit against each other its semi-civilised dependencies, and to fan
their jealousies in order to prevent any common action on their part,
or to avoid drawing the sword for their suppression. Slave revolts,
constant petty wars, and piracy were preying on the unhappy
provincials, and in the Roman protectorate they found no aid. All
their harsh mistress did was to turn loose upon them hordes of
money-lenders and tax-farmers ('negotiatores,' and 'publicani'), who
cleared off what was left by those stronger creatures of prey, the
proconsuls. Thus the misery caused by a meddlesome and nerveless
national policy was enhanced by a domestic administration based on
turpitude and extortion.
[Sidenote: Universal degeneracy of the Government, and decay of the
nation.] Everywhere Rome was failing in her duties as mistress of the
civilised world. Her own internal degeneracy was faithfully reflected
in the abnegation of her imperial duties. When in any country the
small-farmer class is being squeezed off the land; when its labourers
are slaves or serfs; when huge tracts are kept waste to minister to
pleasure; when the shibboleth of art is on every man's lips, but ideas
of true beauty in very few men's souls; when the business-sharper is
the greatest man in the city, and lords it even in the law courts;
when class-magistrates, bidding for high office, deal out justice
according to the rank of the criminal; when exchanges are turned into
great gambling-houses, and senators and men of title are the chief
gamblers; when, in short, 'corruption is universal, when there is
increasing audacity, increasing greed, increasing fraud, increasing
impurity, and these are fed by increasing indulgence and ostentation;
when a considerable number of trials in the courts of law bring out
the fact that the country in general is now regarded as a prey, upon
which any number of vultures, scenting it from afar, may safely
light and securely gorge themselves; when the foul tribe is amply
replenished by its congeners at home, and foreign invaders find any
number of men, bearing good names, ready to assist them in
robberies far more cruel and sweeping than those of the footpad or
burglar'--when such is the tone of society, and such the idols before
which it bends, a nation must be fast going down hill.
A more repulsive picture can hardly be imagined. A mob, a moneyed
class, and an aristocracy almost equally worthless, hating each other,
and hated by the rest of the world; Italians bitterly jealous of
Romans, and only in better plight than the provinces beyond the sea;
more miserable than either, swarms of slaves beginning to brood
over revenge as a solace to their sufferings; the land going out of
cultivation; native industry swamped by slave-grown imports; the
population decreasing; the army degenerating; wars waged as a
speculation, but only against the weak; provinces subjected to
organized pillage; in the metropolis childish superstition, whole sale
luxury, and monstrous vice. The hour for reform was surely come. Who
was to be the man?
* * * * *
CHAPTER II.
TIBERIUS GRACCHUS.
[Sidenote: Scipio Aemilianius.] General expectation would have pointed
to Scipio Aemilianus, the conqueror of Numantia and Carthage, and the
foremost man at Rome. He was well-meaning and more than ordinarily
able, strict and austere as a general, and as a citizen uniting Greek
culture with the old Roman simplicity of life. He was full of scorn of
the rabble, and did not scruple to express it. 'Silence,' he cried,
when he was hissed for what he said about his brother-in-law's death,
'you step-children of Italy!' and when this enraged them still more,
he went on: 'Do you think I shall fear you whom I brought to Italy
in fetters now that you are loose?' He showed equal scorn for such
pursuits as at Rome at least were associated with effeminacy and vice,
and expressed in lively language his dislike of singing and dancing.
'Our children are taught disgraceful tricks. They go to actors'
schools with sambucas and psalteries. They learn to sing--a thing
which our ancestors considered to be a disgrace to freeborn children.
When I was told this I could not believe that men of noble rank
allowed their children to be taught such things. But being taken to a
dancing school I saw--I did upon my honour--more than fifty boys and
girls in the school; and among them one boy, quite a child, about
twelve years of age, the son of a man who was at that time a candidate
for office. And what I saw made me pity the Commonwealth. I saw the
child dancing to the castanets, and it was a dance which one of our
wretched, shameless slaves would not have danced.' On another occasion
he showed a power of quick retort. As censor he had degraded a man
named Asellus, whom Mummius afterwards restored to the equites.
Asellus impeached Scipio, and taunted him with the unluckiness of his
censorship--its mortality, &c. 'No wonder,' said Scipio, 'for the man
who inaugurated it rehabilitated you.'
Such anecdotes show that he was a vigorous speaker. He was of a
healthy constitution, temperate, brave, and honest in money matters;
for he led a simple life, and with all his opportunities for extortion
did not die rich. Polybius, the historian, Panaetius, the philosopher,
Terence and Lucilius, the poets, and the orator and politician
Laelius were his friends. From his position, his talents, and his
associations, he seemed marked out as the one man who could and
would desire to step forth as the saviour of his country. But such
self-sacrifice is not exhibited by men of Scipio's type. Too able to
be blind to the signs of the times, they are swayed by instincts too
strong for their convictions. An aristocrat of aristocrats, Scipio was
a reformer only so far as he thought reform might prolong the reign of
his order. From any more radical measures he shrank with dislike,
if not with fear. The weak spot often to be found in those cultured
aristocrats who coquet with liberalism was fatal to his chance of
being a hero. He was a trimmer to the core, who, without intentional
dishonesty, stood facing both ways till the hour came when he was
forced to range himself on one side or the other, and then he took the
side which he must have known to be the wrong one. Palliation of the
errors of a man placed in so terribly difficult a position is only
just; but laudation of his statesmanship seems absurd. As a statesman
he carried not one great measure, and if one was conceived in his
circle, he cordially approved of its abandonment. To those who claim
for him that he saw the impossibility of those changes which his
brother-in-law advocated, it is sufficient to reply that Rome did
not rest till those changes had been adopted, and that the hearty
co-operation of himself and his friends would have gone far to turn
failure into success. But his mind was too narrow to break through the
associations which had environed him from his childhood. When Tiberius
Gracchus, a nobler man than himself, had suffered martyrdom for the
cause with which he had only dallied, he was base enough to quote from
Homer [Greek: os apoloito kai allos hotis toiaita ge hoezoi]--'So
perish all who do the like again.'
[Sidenote: Tiberius Gracchus.] But the splendid peril which Scipio
shrank from encountering, his brother-in-law courted with the fire
and passion of youth. Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus was, according to
Plutarch, not quite thirty when he was murdered. Plutarch may have
been mistaken, and possibly he was thirty-five. His father, whose
name he bore, had been a magnificent aristocrat, and his mother
was Cornelia, daughter of Hannibal's conqueror, the first Scipio
Africanus, and one of the comparatively few women whose names are
famous in history. He had much in common with Scipio Aemilianus, whom
he resembled in rank and refinement, in valour, in his familiarity
with Hellenic culture, and in the style of his speeches. Diophanes, of
Mitylene, taught him oratory. The philosopher, Blossius, of Cumae, was
his friend. He belonged to the most distinguished circle at Rome. He
had married the daughter of Appius, and his brother had married the
daughter of Mucianus. He had served under Scipio, and displayed
striking bravery at Carthage; and, as quaestor of the incompetent
Mancinus, had by his character for probity saved a Roman army from
destruction; for the Numantines would not treat with the consul, but
only with Gracchus. No man had a more brilliant career open to him
at Rome, had he been content only to shut his eyes to the fate that
threatened his country. But he had not only insight but a conscience,
and cheerfully risked his life to avert the ruin which he foresaw.
His character has been as much debated as his measures, and the most
opposite conclusions have been formed about both, so that his name
is a synonym for patriot with some, for demagogue with others. Even
historians of our own day are still at variance as to the nature of
his legislation. But from a comparison of their researches, and an
independent examination of the authorities on which they are based,
something like a clear conception of the plans of Gracchus seems
possible. What has never, perhaps, as yet been made sufficiently plain
is, who it was that Gracchus especially meant to benefit. Much of the
public land previously described lay in the north and south of Italy
from the frontier rivers Rubicon and Macra to Apulia. It formed, as
Appian says, the largest portion of the land taken from conquered
towns by Rome. [Sidenote: Agrarian proposals of Gracchus.] What
Gracchus proposed was to take from the rich and give to the poor some
of this land. It was, in fact, merely the Licinian law over again with
certain modifications, and the existence of that law would make the
necessity for a repetition of it inexplicable had it not been a
curious principle with the Romans that a law which had fallen into
desuetude ceased to be binding. But it actually fell short of the law
of Licinius, for it provided that he who surrendered what he held over
and above 500 jugera should be guaranteed in the permanent possession
of that quantity, and moreover might retain 250 jugera in addition for
each of his sons. Some writers conjecture that altogether an occupier
might not hold more than 1,000 jugera.
Now the first thing to remark about the law is that it was by no
means a demagogue's sop tossed to the city mob which he was courting.
Gracchus saw slave labour ruining free labour, and the manhood
and soil of Italy and the Roman army proportionately depreciated.
[Sidenote: Nothing demagogic about the proposal.] To fill the vacuum
he proposed to distribute to the poor not only of Rome but of the
Municipia, of the Roman colonies, and, it is to be presumed, of the
Socii also, land taken from the rich members of those four component
parts of the Roman State. This consideration alone destroys at once
the absurd imputation of his being actuated merely by demagogic
motives; but in no history is it adequately enforced. No demagogue at
that epoch would have spread his nets so wide. At the same time it
gives the key to the subsequent manoeuvres by which his enemies strove
to divide his partisans. Broadly, then, we may say that Gracchus
struck boldly at the very root of the decadence of the whole
peninsula, and that if his remedy could not cure it nothing else
could. [Sidenote: The Socii--land-owners.] How the Socii became
possessors of the public land we do not know. Probably they bought it
from Cives Romani, its authorised occupiers, with the connivance of
the State. We now see from whom the land was to be taken, namely, the
rich all over Italy, and to whom it was to be given, the poor all over
Italy; and also the object with which it was to be given, namely,
to re-create a peasantry and stop the increase of the slave-plague.
[Sidenote: Provision against evasions of the law.] In order to prevent
the law becoming a dead letter like that of Licinius, owing to poor
men selling their land as soon as they got it, he proposed that the
new land-owners should not have the right to dispose of their land to
others, and for this, though it would have been hard to carry out, we
cannot see what other proviso could have been substituted. Lastly, as
death and other causes would constantly render changes in the holdings
inevitable, he proposed that a permanent board should have the
superintendence of them, and this too was a wise and necessary
measure.
[Sidenote: Provision for the administration of the law.] We can
understand so much of the law of Gracchus, but it is hard thoroughly
to understand more. It has been urged as a difficulty not easily
explained that few people, after retaining 500 jugera for themselves
and 250 for each of their sons, would have had much left to surrender.
But this difficulty is imaginary rather than real; for Appian says
that the public land was 'the greater part' of the land taken by Rome
from conquered states, and the great families may have had vast
tracts of it as pasture land. [Sidenote: Things about the law hard to
understand.] There are, however, other things which with our meagre
knowledge of the law we cannot explain. For instance, was a hard
and fast line drawn at 500 jugera as compensation whether a man
surrendered 2 jugera or 2,000 beyond that amount? Again, considering
the outcry made, it is hard to imagine that only those possessing
above 500 jugera were interfered with. But this perhaps may be
accounted for by recollecting that in such matters men fight bravely
against what they feel to be the thin end of the wedge, even if they
are themselves concerned only sympathetically. What Gracchus meant to
do with the slaves displaced by free labour, or how he meant to decide
what was public and what was private land after inextricable confusion
between the two in many parts for so many years, we cannot even
conjecture. The statesmanlike comprehensiveness, however, of his main
propositions justifies us in believing that he had not overlooked such
obvious stumbling-blocks in his way. [Sidenote: Appian's criticism of
the law.] When Appian says he was eager to accomplish what he thought
to be a good thing, we concur in the testimony Appian thus gives to
Gracchus having been a good man. But when he goes on to say he was so
eager that he never even thought of the difficulty, we prefer to judge
Gracchus by his own acts rather than by Appian's criticism or the
similar criticisms of modern writers. [Sidenote: Speeches of Gracchus
explaining his motives.] The speeches ascribed to him, which are
apparently genuine, seem to show that he knew well enough what he was
about. 'The wild beasts of Italy,' he said, 'have their dens to retire
to, but the brave men who spill their blood in her cause have nothing
left but air and light. Without homes, without settled habitations,
they wander from place to place with their wives and children; and
their generals do but mock them when at the head of their armies they
exhort their men to fight for their sepulchres and the gods of their
hearths, for among such numbers perhaps there is not one Roman who has
an altar that has belonged to his ancestors or a sepulchre in which
their ashes rest. The private soldiers fight and die to advance the
wealth and luxury of the great, and they are called masters of the
world without having a sod to call their own.' Again, he asked, 'Is
it not just that what belongs to the people should be shared by the
people? Is a man with no capacity for fighting more useful to his
country than a soldier? Is a citizen inferior to a slave? Is an alien
or one who owns some of his country's soil the best patriot? You have
won by war most of your possessions, and hope to acquire the rest of
the habitable globe. But now it is but a hazard whether you gain the
rest by bravery or whether by your weakness and discords you are
robbed of what you have by your foes. Wherefore, in prospect of such
acquisitions, you should if need be spontaneously and of your own free
will yield up these lands to those who will rear children for the
service of the State. Do not sacrifice a great thing while striving
for a small, especially as you are to receive no contemptible
compensation for your expenditure on the land, in free ownership of
500 jugera secure for ever, and in case you have sons, of 250 more for
each of them.
The striking point in the last extract is his remark about a'small
thing.' It is likely, enough that the losses of the proprietors as a
body would not be overwhelming, and that the opposition was rendered
furious almost as much by the principle of restitution, and
interference with long-recognised ownership, as by the value of what
they were called on to disgorge. Five hundred jugera of slave-tended
pasture-land could not have been of very great importance to a rich
Roman, who, however, might well have been alarmed by the warning of
Gracchus with regard to the army, for in foreign service, and not in
grazing or ploughing, the fine gentleman of the day found a royal road
to wealth. [Sidenote: Grievances of the possessors.] On the other hand
it is quite comprehensible both that the possessors imagined that they
had a great grievance, and that they had some ground for their belief.
A possessor, for instance, who had purchased from another in the full
faith that his title would never be disturbed, had more right to be
indignant than a proprietor of Indian stock would have, if in case of
the bankruptcy of the Indian Government the British Government should
refuse to refund his money. There must have been numbers of such cases
with every possible complexity of title; and even if the class that
would be actually affected was not large, it was powerful, and every
landowner with a defective title would, however small his holding
(provided it was over 30 jugera, the proposed allotment), take the
alarm and help to swell the cry against the Tribune as a demagogue and
a robber. This is what we can state about the agrarian law of Tiberius
Gracchus. It remains to be told how it was carried.
[Sidenote: How the law was carried.] Gracchus had a colleague named
Octavius, who is said to have been his personal friend. Octavius had
land himself to lose if the law were carried, and he opposed it.
Gracchus offered to pay him the value of the land out of his own
purse; but Octavius was not to be so won over, and as Tribune
interposed his veto to prevent the bill being read to the people that
they might vote on it. Tiberius retorted by using his power to suspend
public business and public payments. One day, when the people were
going to vote, the other side seized the voting urns, and then
Tiberius and the rest of the Tribunes agreed to take the opinion of
the Senate. The result was that he came away more hopeless of success
by constitutional means, and doubtless irritated by insult. He then
proposed to Octavius that the people should vote whether he or
Octavius should lose office--a weak proposal perhaps, but the proposal
of an honest, generous man, whose aim was not self-aggrandisement but
the public weal. Octavius naturally refused. Tiberius called together
the thirty-five tribes, to vote whether or no Octavius should
be deprived of his office. [Sidenote: Octavius deprived of the
Tribunate.] The first tribe voted in the affirmative, and Gracchus
implored Octavius even now to give way, but in vain. The next sixteen
tribes recorded the same vote, and once more Gracchus interceded with
his old friend. But he spoke to deaf ears. The voting went on, and
when Octavius, on his Tribunate being taken from him, would not go
away, Plutarch says that Tiberius ordered one of his freedmen to drag
him from the Rostra.
These acts of Tiberius Gracchus are commonly said to have been the
beginning of revolution at Rome; and the guilt of it is accordingly
laid at his door. And there can be no doubt that he was guilty in the
sense that a man is guilty who introduces a light into some chamber
filled with explosive vapour, which the stupidity or malice of others
has suffered to accumulate. But, after all, too much is made of this
violation of constitutional forms and the sanctity of the Tribunate.
[Sidenote: Defence of the conduct of Gracchus.] The first were effete,
and all regular means of renovating the Republic seemed to be closed
to the despairing patriot, by stolid obstinacy sheltering itself
under the garb of law and order. The second was no longer what it had
been--the recognised refuge and defence of the poor. The rich, as
Tiberius in effect argued, had found out how to use it also. If all
men who set the example of forcible infringement of law are criminals,
Gracchus was a criminal. But in the world's annals he sins in good
company; and when men condemn him, they should condemn Washington
also. Perhaps his failure has had most to do with his condemnation.
Success justifies, failure condemns, most revolutions in most men's
eyes. But if ever a revolution was excusable this was; for it
was carried not by a small party for small aims, but by national
acclamation, by the voices of Italians who flocked to Rome either to
vote, or, if they had not votes themselves, to overawe those who had.
How far Gracchus saw the inevitable effect of his acts is open to
dispute. [Sidenote: Gracchus not a weak sentimentalist.] But probably
he saw it as clearly as any man can see the future. Because he was
generous and enthusiastic, it is assumed that he was sentimental and
weak, and that his policy was guided by impulse rather than reason.
There seems little to sustain such a judgment other than the desire of
writers to emphasise a comparison between him and his brother. If
his character had been what some say that it was, his speeches would
hardly have been described by Cicero as acute and sensible, but not
rhetorical enough. All his conduct was consistent. He strove hard
and to the last to procure his end by peaceable means. Driven into
a corner by the tactics of his opponents, he broke through the
constitution, and once having done so, went the way on which his acts
led him, without turning to the right hand or the left. There seems
to be not a sign of his having drifted into revolution. Because a
portrait is drawn in neutral tints, it does not follow that it is
therefore faithful, and those writers who seem to think they must
reconcile the fact of Tiberius having been so good a man with his
having been, as they assert, so bad a citizen, have blurred the
likeness in their anxiety about the chiaroscuro. No one would affirm
that Tiberius committed no errors; but that he was a wise as well as
a good man is far more in accordance with the facts than a more
qualified verdict would be.
[Sidenote: Mean behaviour of the Senate.] The Senate showed its spite
against the successful Tribune by petty annoyances, such as allowing
him only about a shilling a day for his official expenditure, and, as
rumour said, by the assassination of one of his friends. But, while
men like P. Scipio Nasica busied themselves with such miserable
tactics, Tiberius brought forward another great proposal supplementary
to his agrarian law. [Sidenote: Proposal of Gracchus to distribute the
legacy of Attalus.] Attalus, the last king of Pergamus, had just died
and left his kingdom to Rome. Gracchus wished to divide his treasures
among the new settlers, and expressed some other intention of
transferring the settlement of the country from the Senate to the
people. As to the second of these propositions it would be unsafe
as
|
her for many a day, and was
often recounted to new comers. It became the general opinion at Culoz
that the Englishman had in some unaccountable manner killed his wife and
disposed mysteriously of her body. But although search was made for it
high and low, the murdered body was never found. Nevertheless, the
stranger's guilt remained a tradition of the neighborhood, and the story
of that marvelous disappearance is related by the villagers unto this
day.
Alan went on his way rejoicing, although in somewhat grim and
shame-faced wise. For three years he had been a miserable slave. Now he
was free! And he determined that he would never submit to bonds again.
CHAPTER II.
AT THE RECTORY.
About the very time when Alan Walcott, at the age of three-and-twenty,
was making a hasty match with the daughter of a French refugee--a match
bitterly deplored before the first few weeks of married life were
over--events, which afterwards very greatly affected his career, were
quickly shaping themselves in a sleepy little English village not far
from the place where he was born.
Angleford, a mere handful of red-brick cottages, five miles from a
railway station, was little known to the outer world. Its nearest
market-town was Dorminster, and the village of Thorley lay between
Angleford and the county town. Birchmead, a hamlet which had some repute
of its own as a particularly healthy place, stood further down the river
on which Angleford was built, and its merits generally threw those of
neighboring villages into the shade.
But Angleford was in itself a pretty little nook, and its inhabitants
somewhat prided themselves on its seclusion from the world. These
inhabitants, it must be confessed, were few. It had once been a larger
and more important place, but had gradually dwindled away until the
village contained less than three hundred persons, chiefly laborers and
small shop-keepers. Beside these, there were the doctor, and his wife,
the rector and his family, and the squire--a childless widower, who was
of rather less account than anybody else in the parish.
The Rectory was a rambling, long, low, red-brick house standing in
prettily-wooded grounds, bordered by the river, on the other side of
which lay the park belonging to the squire. The park ran for some
distance on both sides of the stream, and the Rectory grounds were, so
to speak, taken out of the very midst of the squire's, demesne. The
continuation of wooded ground on either side the narrow winding river
made the place particularly picturesque; and it was a favorite amusement
for the rector's son and daughter to push a rather crazy boat out of the
little boat-house at the foot of the garden, and row up and down those
reaches of the stream "between the bridges," which were navigable. One
of the bridges warned them of the weir, which it was not very safe to
approach; and beyond the other, three miles further down and close to
Birchmead, the stream was shallow and clogged with reeds. But within
these limits there was a peaceful tranquil beauty which made the boat a
favorite resting place for the Rectory people during the long summer
evenings and afternoons.
It was two o'clock on a late autumn afternoon, when a girl of sixteen
came out of the Rectory door, which always stood hospitably open in fine
weather, and walked to the boat-house, as if intending to launch out
upon the water. The day was sunny on the whole, but not cloudless: the
sun shone out brightly every now and then, and was again obscured by a
filmy haze, such as rises so easily from the low-lying land in Essex.
But the golden haze softened the distant outlines of wood and meadow,
and the sun's beams rested tenderly upon the rapidly stripping branches,
where a few rustling leaves still told of their departed glories. The
long undefined shadows of the trees stretched far across the wide lawn,
scarcely moving in the profound stillness of the air; and a whole
assembly of birds kept up a low-toned conversation in the bushes, as if
the day were hardly bright enough to warrant a full chorus of concerted
song. It was a tender, wistful kind of day, such as comes sometimes in
the fall of the year, before the advent of frost. And a certain affinity
with the day was visible in the face of the girl who had walked down to
the riverside. There was no melancholy in her expression: indeed, a very
sweet and happy smile played about the corners of her sensitive mouth;
but a slightly wistful look in the long-lashed grey eyes lent an
unconscious pathos to the delicate face. But, although delicate, the
face was anything but weak. The features were clearly cut; the mouth and
chin expressed decision as well as sensibility; and beneath the thick,
fine waves of shining brown hair, the forehead was broad and
well-developed. Without pretension to actual beauty or any kind of
perfection, the face was one likely to attract and then to charm;
gentleness, thoughtfulness, intellectual power, might be read in those
fair features, as well as an almost infantine candor and innocence, and
the subtle and all too-transient bloom of extreme youth. Her hair, which
constituted one of her best "points," was simply parted in the middle,
fastened with a clasp at the nape of her neck, and then allowed to fall
in a smooth, shining shower down to her waist. Mrs. Campion, who had
been something of a beauty in her young days, was given to lamenting
that Lettice's hair was not golden, as hers had been; but the clear soft
brown of the girl's abundant tresses had a beauty of it's own; and, as
it waved over her light woollen frock of grey-green hue, it gave her an
air of peculiar appropriateness to the scene--as of a wood-nymph, who
bore the colors of the forest-trees from which she sprang.
Such, at any rate, was the fancy of a man whose canoe came shooting down
the river at this moment, like an arrow from a bow. He slackened pace as
he came near the Rectory garden, and peered through the tangled branches
which surrounded the old black boat-house, to catch another glimpse of
Lettice. He wondered that she did not notice him: his red and white
blazer and jaunty cap made him a somewhat conspicuous object in this
quiet country place; and she must have heard the long strokes of his
oars. But she remained silent, apparently examining the fastenings of
the boat; absorbed and tranquil, with a happy smile upon her lips.
"Good afternoon, Miss Campion: can I help you there in any way?" he
shouted at last, letting his boat slide past the boat-house entrance,
and then bringing it round to the little flight of grassy steps cut in
the bank from the lawn to the river.
"Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Dalton. Thank you, no; I don't want any help,"
said Lettice; but the young man had already set foot upon the lawn and
was advancing towards her. He was the nephew and heir of the childless
Squire at Angleford Manor, and he occasionally spent a few weeks with
his uncle in the country. Old Mr. Dalton was not fond of Angleford,
however, and the Campions did not see much of him and his nephew.
Brooke Dalton was six-and-twenty, a manly, well-looking young fellow,
with fair hair and bright blue eyes. He was not very tall, and had
already begun to develop a tendency towards stoutness, which gave him
considerable trouble in after years. At present he kept it down by heavy
doses of physical exercise, so that it amounted only to a little unusual
fullness of body and the suspicion of a double chin. His enemies called
him fat. His friends declared that his sunshiny look of prosperity and
good-humor was worth any amount of beauty, and that it would be a
positive loss to the world if he were even a trifle thinner. And Brooke
Dalton was a man of many friends.
Lettice greeted him with a smile. "So you are here again," she said.
"Yes, I've been here a day or two. Have you heard from Sydney yet?"
"No, and we are dreadfully anxious. But papa says we shall hear very
soon now."
"I don't suppose you need have the slightest anxiety. Sydney is sure to
do well: he was always a clever fellow."
"Yes, but he has had no teaching except from papa: and papa torments
himself with the idea that there may be better teachers than himself at
Cambridge--which I am sure there couldn't be. And I am sure he will be
disappointed if Sydney does not get at least an exhibition, although he
tries to pretend that he will not mind."
"If he does not get it this year, he will be the surer of it next time."
"Yes," said Lettice rather doubtfully. "But I wish papa were not quite
so anxious."
"Did he go to Cambridge with Sydney?"
"Yes, and stayed for a day or two; but he said he was rather glad to get
home again--there had been so many changes since he was there."
"Here he comes," said Brooke, turning round.
The rector was a dignified-looking man, with a tall figure, handsome
features, and hair and beard which had of late been growing very grey.
He greeted Dalton cordially, and at once began to speak of his hopes and
expectations for his son. To all of these Dalton responded
good-humoredly. "Sydney has plenty of brains: he is is sure to do well,"
he said.
"Oh, I don't know--I don't know. I've been his only tutor, and I may not
have laid the foundations with sufficient care. I shall not be at all
surprised if he fails. Indeed"--with a transparent affectation of
indifference--"I shall not be sorry to have him back for another year.
He is not quite eighteen, you know. And Lettice will be glad to have him
again."
"But I want him to succeed!" said Lettice eagerly.
"Of course you do. And he _will_ succeed," said Brooke; an assurance
which caused her to flash a glad look of gratitude to him in reply.
"Lettice has been Sydney's companion in his studies," said Mr. Campion,
patting her hand gently with his long white fingers. "She has been very
industrious and has got on very well, but I daresay she will be pleased
to have a holiday when he is gone."
"Yes, I daresay," said Brooke; and then, looking at Lettice, he saw the
manifestation of some strong feeling which he did not understand. The
girl flushed hotly and withdrew her hand from her father's arm. The
tears suddenly came into her eyes.
"I never wanted a holiday," she said, in a hurt tone.
"No, no, you were always a good girl," returned her father absently--his
eyes had wandered away from her to the high-road beyond the glebe. "But
of course there is a limit to a girl's powers; she can't compete with a
boy beyond a certain point. Is not that a cab, Lettice? Surely it must
be Sydney, and he has came at last. Well, now we shall know the result!"
"I'll go to the fence and look," said Lettice, running away. The tears
of mortification and distress were still smarting in her eyes. Why
should her father depreciate her to their neighbor because she was a
girl? She did not mind Mr. Dalton's opinion of her, but it was hard that
her father should give her no credit for the work that she had done in
the study at his side. Step by step she had kept pace with her brother:
sometimes he had excelled her, sometimes she thought that she was
outstripping him. Now in the hour of his possible success (of which she
would be proud and glad), why should her father seem to undervalue her
powers and her industry? They would never bring her the guerdon that
might fall to Sydney's lot; but she felt that she, too, had a right to
her father's praise.
She had been vaguely hurt during Sydney's absence to find that Mr.
Campion did not seem disposed to allow her to go on working alone with
him. "Wait, my dear, wait," he had said to her, when she came to him as
usual, "let us see how Sydney's examination turns out. If he comes back
to us for another year you can go on with him. If not--well, you are a
girl, it does not matter so much for _you_; and your mother complains
that you do not sit with her sufficiently. Take a holiday just now, we
will go on when Sydney comes back."
But in this, Lettice's first separation from her beloved brother, she
had no heart for a holiday. She would have been glad of hard work to
take her out of herself. She was anxious, sad, _dés[oe]uvrée_, and if
she had not been taught all her life to look on failure in an
examination as something disgraceful, she would have earnestly hoped
that Sydney might lose the scholarship for which he was competing.
Brooke Dalton saw that his presence was scarcely desired just then, and
took his leave, meditating as he pulled up the river on Lettice's
reddened cheeks and pretty tear-filled eyes. "I suppose she thinks
she'll miss her brother when he goes away," he decided at length, "and
no doubt she will, for a time; but it is just as well--what does a girl
want with all that Latin and Greek? It will only serve to make her
forget to brush her hair and wear a frock becomingly. Of course she's
clever, but I should not care for that sort of cleverness in a
sister--or a wife." He thought again of the girl's soft grey eyes. But
he had a hundred other preoccupations, and her image very soon faded
from his brain.
Lettice ran to the fence to look at the cab, but Mr. Campion turned at
once to the gateway and walked out into the road. He had not been
mistaken, it was Sydney, indeed; and as soon as the young fellow saw his
father he stopped the vehicle, told the driver to go on to the Rectory
with his portmanteau, and turned to his father with a triumphant smile.
Lettice did not meet the pair for a minute or two, so the son's
communication was made first to Mr. Campion alone.
"Here I am, sir!" was the young man's greeting, "turned up again like a
bad half-penny."
"Welcome anyhow, my boy," said the rector, "and sterling coin, I'll
warrant, however much you may malign yourself." He was too nervous to
ask a direct question about his son's success. "We have been very dull
without you. Lettice is counting on your help to break in her pony to
the saddle."
"You mustn't be dull after a week's absence. What would you do if I had
to be more than half the year at Cambridge?"
"Ah, that would be a different thing. Have they given you an exhibition
then?"
"Well, not exactly that." The rector's face fell, but it brightened as
Sydney proceeded with a touch of youthful pomposity. "Your old pupil is
a Scholar of Trinity."
The rector was carrying his cane as he walked along, and when Sydney had
told his good news he stopped short, his face aglow, and for lack of any
more eloquent mode of expressing his satisfaction, raised it in the air
and brought it down with sounding emphasis on his companion's back.
Sydney laughed.
"Laudatur et alget," he said. "How many stripes would it have been if I
had come home disgraced?"
"The stripes would have been my portion in that case," the rector
answered, with a hearty laugh. He had not been so jovial for many
months.
Then Lettice came running up, and had to be told the news, and clung to
Sydney's neck with kisses, which he graciously permitted rather than
returned. But he was gratified by her affection, as well as by the pride
and pleasure which his father took in his success, and the less
discriminating, but equally warm congratulations and caresses showered
upon him by his mother.
Indeed for the rest of the day, Sydney was caressed and complimented to
his heart's content. He preferred the compliments to the caresses, and
he was not unloving to his parents, although he repulsed Lettice when
she attempted to kiss him more than once. He had come back from
Cambridge with an added sense of manliness and importance, which did not
sit ill upon his handsome face and the frank confidence of his manner.
It was Sydney who had inherited the golden hair and regular features
which, as his mother said, ought to have belonged to Lettice and not to
him; but she loved him all the more dearly for his resemblance to her
family and to herself. It escaped her observation that Sydney's
blue-grey eyes were keener, his mouth more firmly closed and his jaw
squarer than those of most boys or men, and betokened, if physiognomy
goes for anything, a new departure in character and intellect from the
ways in which Mrs. Campion and her family had always walked. A fair,
roseate complexion, and a winning manner, served to disguise these
points of difference; and Mrs. Campion had not quick sight for anything
which did not lie upon the surface, in the character of those with whom
she had to do.
She was usually to be found in the drawing-room--a faded, pretty woman,
little over fifty years of age, but with the delicate and enfeebled air
of the semi-invalid--a white shawl round her shoulders, a bit of
knitting or embroidery between her incapable, uncertain fingers. Her
hair was very grey, but the curliness had never gone out of it, and it
sprang so crisply and picturesquely from her white, unwrinkled forehead
that it seemed a pity to hide any of the pretty waves even by the crown
of fine old lace which Mrs. Campion loved. She was a woman at whom no
one could look without a sense of artistic satisfaction, for her face
was still charming, and her dress delicately neat and becoming. As for
her mental and moral qualities, she was perfectly well satisfied with
them, and her husband was as satisfied as she--although from a somewhat
different point of view. And as she very properly remarked, if her
husband were satisfied with her, she did not know why she should be
called upon to regard any adverse opinion of the outer world. At the
same time she was an ardent disciple of Mrs. Grundy.
How this woman came to be the mother of a child like Lettice, it were,
indeed, hard to say. Sydney was fashioned more or less after Mrs.
Campion's own heart: he was brisk, practical, unimaginative--of a type
that she to some extent understood; but Lettice with her large heart,
her warm and passionate nature, her keen sensibilities and tender
conscience, was a continual puzzle to her mother. Especially at this
period of the girl's life, when new powers were developing and new
instincts coming into existence--the very time when a girl most needs
the help and comfort of a mother's tender comprehension--Mrs. Campion
and Lettice fell hopelessly apart. Lettice's absorption in her studies
did not seem right in Mrs. Campion's eyes: she longed with all her soul
to set her daughter down to crewel-work and fancy knitting, and her one
comfort in view of Sydney's approaching separation from his home was her
hope that, when he was gone, Lettice would give up Latin and Greek and
become like other girls. She was ignorantly proud of Sydney's successes:
she was quite as ignorantly ashamed of Lettice's achievements in the
same lines of study.
"I can never forget," she said to Lettice that evening, when the
rector and his son were discussing Cambridge and examination papers
in the study, while the mother and her daughter occupied the
drawing-room--Lettice, indeed, wild to join her father and brother in
the study and glean every possible fragment of information concerning
the place which she had been taught to reverence, but far too dutiful to
her mother to leave her alone when Mrs. Campion seemed inclined to
talk--"I can never forget that Sydney learned his alphabet at my knee. I
taught him to spell, at any rate; and if your father had not insisted on
taking the teaching out of my hands when he was seven years old, I am
convinced that I should have done great things with him."
"Surely he has done great things already, mamma!" Lettice said with
enthusiasm.
"Oh, yes!" said Mrs. Campion with a sigh. "But I don't think your father
has given quite the bias to his mind that I should have liked best. I
have always hoped that he would spend his strength in the service of the
Church; but----You have not heard him say much about his future career,
have you, Lettice?"
"I don't think he has considered it particularly," Lettice answered.
"But he never speaks of taking Orders; he talked of the Bar the other
day. There's no reason why he should make up his mind so soon, is there,
mamma?"
"No, dear, no. But I am quite sure that if he went into the Church he
would be a Bishop," said Mrs. Campion, with conviction. "And I should
like him to be a Bishop."
"Well, perhaps he will be Lord Chancellor instead," said Lettice,
merrily.
"There can be no doubt, my dear," said her mother, "that a Bishop of the
Anglican Church is able to carry himself with more dignity and
distinction in everyday life than a Lord Chancellor, who is only
dignified when he is on the Bench. I think that Sydney would make an
excellent Bishop--quite the most distinguished Bishop of the day."
It was not until next morning that Lettice had time to ply her brother
with questions as to his examination and his Cambridge experiences
generally. She did not ask about the visit to London which he had also
paid. She had been to London herself, and could go there any day. But
Cambridge!--the goal of Sydney's aspirations--the place where (the girl
believed) intellectual success or failure was of such paramount
importance--what was that like?
Sydney was ready to hold forth. He liked the position of instructor and
was not insensible to the flattery of Lettice's intentness on his
answers. But he was a little dismayed by one of her questions, which
showed the direction of her thoughts.
"Did you hear anything about the women's college, Sydney?" For Girton
and Newnham were less well known then than they are now.
"Women's colleges! No, indeed. At least, I heard them laughed at several
times. They're no good."
"Why not?" said Lettice, wistfully.
"Now, Lettice," said the youthful mentor, severe in boyish wisdom, "I
hope you are not going to take fancies into your head about going to
Cambridge yourself. I should not like it at all. I'm not going to have
_my_ sister laughed at and sneered at every time she walks out. I don't
want to be made a laughing-stock. Nice girls stay at home with their
mothers; they don't go to colleges and make themselves peculiar."
"I am not going to be peculiar; but I don't want to forget all I have
learned with you," said Lettice, quickly.
"You have learned too much already," said the autocrat, whose views
concerning women's education had developed since his short stay in
Cambridge. "Girls don't want Latin and Greek; they want music and
needlework, and all that sort of thing. I don't want my sister to be a
blue-stocking."
Lettice felt that her lot in life ought not to be settled for her simply
as Sydney's sister--that she had an individuality of her own. But the
feeling was too vague to put into words; and after Syndey had left her,
in obedience to a call from his father, she sat on in the long, low room
with its cushioned window-seats and book-covered walls--the dear old
room in which she had spent so many happy hours with her teacher and her
fellow-pupil--and wondered what would become of her when Sydney was
really gone; whether all those happy days were over, and she must
henceforth content herself with a life at Mrs. Campion's side, where it
was high treason to glance at any book that was neither a devotional
work nor a novel. Lettice loved her mother, but the prospect did not
strike her as either brilliant or cheering.
It was the beginning, although at first she knew it not, of a new
era in her life. Her happy childhood was over; she was bound henceforth
to take up the heavy burden which custom lays on the shoulders of so
many women: the burden of trivial care, unchanging routine, petty
conventionalities--
"Heavy as frost and deep almost as life."
Sydney went out into the world to fight; Lettice sat in idleness at
home; and society, as well as the rector and his wife, judged this
division of labor to be fair and right. But to Lettice, whose courage
was high and whose will and intellect were strong, it seemed a terrible
injustice that she might not fight and labor too. She longed for
expansion: for a wider field and sharper weapons wherewith to contest
the battle; and she longed in vain. During her father's lifetime it
became more and more impossible for her to leave home. She was
five-and-twenty before she breathed a larger air than that of Angleford.
CHAPTER III.
PROGRESS.
In due time, Sydney proceeded to Cambridge, and Lettice was left alone.
The further development of brother and sister can scarcely be understood
without a retrospective glance at their own and their parents' history.
The Reverend Lawrence Campion, Rector of Angleford, was at this time a
prosperous and contented man. Before he reached his fortieth year, he
had been presented by an old college friend to a comfortable living.
Married to the woman of his early choice, he had become the father of
two straight-limbed, healthy, and intelligent children; and then, for
another twenty years, he felt that he would not care to change his lot
with that of the most enviable of his fellow-creatures.
Being himself a scholar and a student, he determined that his boy and
girl, so far as he could shape their lives, should be scholars also. To
teach them all he knew was henceforth his chief occupation; for he would
not hand over to another a task which for him was a simple labor of
love. Day by day he sat between them in his comfortable study, where
roses tapped at the lozenge-shaped window panes all through the summer,
and in winter the glow of the great logs upon the hearth was reflected
from the polished binding and gilt lettering of his books in a thousand
autumnal hues, as pleasing to his eyes as the tints of the summer
flowers. Day by day he sat between his children, patiently laying the
foundation of all they could thereafter learn or know. He made no
distinction for age or sex; and in their case, at any rate, nature had
set no stigma of inferiority on the intelligence of the girl. Sydney was
the older of the two by eighteen months, and at first it seemed as
though his mind was readier to grasp a new idea; but there awoke in
Lettice a spirit of generous rivalry and resolution, which saved her
from being far out-stripped by her brother. Together they studied Greek
and Latin; they talked French and read German; they picked up as much of
mathematics as their father could explain to them--which was little
enough; and, best of all, they developed a literary faculty such as does
not always accompany a knowledge of half-a-dozen dead and living
languages.
The day came when Mr. Campion, not without misgiving, resolved to test
the value of the education which he had given to his children. He had
held a fellowship at Peterhouse up to the time of his marriage, and had
intended that Sydney should try for a scholarship at the same college.
But the boy aimed at a higher mark; he was bent on being a Scholar of
Trinity. Perhaps it might have done him good to fail once or twice on
the threshold of his life, had his father assured himself beforehand
that he would not be disappointed if his pupil was sent back to him for
another year of preparation. But, as we have already seen, Sidney
succeeded, and, if the truth must be told, Mr. Campion was in no way
surprised at his success.
From that time forward none of the Campions ever dreamed of failure in
connection with Sydney's efforts. He certainly did not dream of failure
for himself. He had that sublime confidence which swells the heart of
every young man in the flush of his first victory. We laugh in the
middle age at the ambitions which we nursed at twenty; but we did not
laugh when the divine breath was in us, and when our faith removed
mountains of difficulty from our path.
Sydney's career at Cambridge was one long triumph. He gained the Craven
and Porson scholarships; his epigrams were quoted by college tutors as
models of vigor and elegance; he was President of the Union; he took an
excellent degree, and was elected to a fellowship in due course. He had,
in fact, done brilliant things; and at the age of twenty-four he was--to
those who knew him best, and especially to those who liked him
least--that shining, glorified, inspired, and yet sophisticated product
of modern university culture, an academic prig. The word is not of
necessity a term of reproach. Perhaps we are all prigs at some season in
our lives, if we happen to have any inherent power of doing great
things. There are lovable prigs, who grow into admirable men and women;
but, alas! for the prig whose self-love coils round him like a snake,
until it crushes out the ingenuous fervor of youth, and perverts the
noblest aspirations of manhood!
From Cambridge Sydney went to London, and was called to the bar. Here,
of course, his progress was not so rapid. Briefs do not come for
wishing, nor even for merit alone. Nevertheless he was advancing year by
year in the estimation of good judges; and it was known to his father,
and to his intimate friends, that he only waited a favorable opportunity
to stand for a seat in parliament.
At Angleford, in the meantime, they watched his career with proud hearts
and loving sympathy. Mrs. Campion, in particular, doted on her son. She
even scanned the paper every morning, never by any chance missing an
item of law intelligence, where occasionally she would be rewarded by
coming across Sydney's name. She would not have considered any
distinction, however great, to be more than his due.
Lettice never thought of disagreeing with her mother when she sang the
praises of Sydney; but it must be confessed that both the rector and his
wife displayed less than their ordinary balance of judgment in
discussing the merits of their son. They unconsciously did much
injustice to the girl, by their excessive adulation of her brother, and
her interests were constantly sacrificed to his. She would have been the
last to admit that it was so; but the fact was clear enough to the few
persons who used to visit them at Angleford. Her friend, Clara Graham,
for instance, the wife of a London journalist, who came down now and
then to spend a holiday in her native village, would attempt to
commiserate Lettice on the hardness of her lot; but Lettice would not
listen to anything of the kind. She was too loyal to permit a word to be
spoken in her presence which might seem to reflect upon her parents or
her brother.
Yet it would have been impossible that she should not be in some way
affected by the change which had come over her life since Sydney went to
Cambridge. From that day her regular reading with her father had ceased,
and she was left to direct her studies as she thought best. Mr. Campion
was almost entirely absorbed in the prospects of his son, and if Lettice
needed his assistance she had to ask for it, often more than once. The
consequence was that she soon gave up asking, and her mind, left to its
own devices, gradually found its true bent. She did not read much more
Latin or Greek, but devoured all the Modern literature that came in her
way. After that she began to write--not fiction in the first instance,
but more or less solid essays on criticism and social philosophy,
following the pattern of certain writers in the half-crown monthly
magazines, which her father was wont to take in. If she had known that
the time would come when she would have to earn her living by her pen,
she could scarcely have adopted a better plan to prepare herself for the
task.
In the first instance, whatever she did in this way had been for her own
pleasure and distraction, without any clear idea of turning her
abilities to practical account. She had no inclination for an idle life,
but there was a limited period during which it rested with her father to
say what her occupation as a woman should be. When Sidney went to
Cambridge, Lettice had entreated that she might be sent to Girton or
Newnham; but the young Scholar of Trinity had fought shy of the notion,
and it was dropped at once. That, indeed, was the beginning of Lettice's
isolation--the beginning of a kind of mental estrangement from her
brother, which the lapse of time was to widen and perpetuate.
Mr. Campion and his wife were by no means unkind to their daughter; they
simply put Sydney first in all their plans and anticipations of the
future. Her education was supposed to be complete; her lot was to be
cast at home, and not in the rough outer world, where men compete and
struggle for the mastery. If she had complained, they might not have
been shocked, but they would have been immeasurably astonished. The
rector had given her an excellent training, and though his strongest
motive was the desire to stimulate and encourage his son, no doubt he
had her interests in view at the same time. But when he finished with
Sydney he finished with Lettice, and it never occurred to him that there
was any injustice in suddenly withdrawing from her the arm on which he
had taught her to lean.
She did not complain. Yet as time went on she could not shut her eyes to
Sydney's habit of referring every question to the test of personal
expediency. It was her first great disillusion, but the pain which it
caused her was on her parents' behalf rather than on her own. They were
the chief sufferers; they gave him so much and received so little in
return. To be sure, Sydney was only what they had made him. They bade
him "take," in language which he could easily understand, but their
craving for love, for tenderness, for a share in his hopes, ambitions,
resolutions, and triumphs, found no entrance to his understanding.
Sydney had spent a large sum of money at Cambridge, and had left heavy
debts behind him, although his father had paid without remonstrance all
the accounts which he suffered to reach the old man's hands. He had what
are called expensive tastes; in other words, he bought what he coveted,
and did not count the cost. The same thing went on in London, and Mr.
Campion soon found that his income, good as it was, fell short of the
demands which were made upon it.
The rector himself had always been a free spender. His books, his
pictures, his garden, his mania for curiosities, had run away with
thousands of pounds, and now, when he surreptitiously tried to convert
these things into cash again there was a woeful falling off in their
value. He knew nothing of the art of driving a bargain; and, where
others would have made a profit with the same opportunities, he
invariably lost money. He had bought badly to begin with, and he sold
disastrously. Being hard pressed on one occasion for a hundred pounds to
send to Sydney, he borrowed it of a perfect stranger, who took for his
security what would have sufficed to cover ten times the amount.
|
can be put on his judgment,
who has been engaged all his life in public business, and who never
sees any faults in his friends. Millar exults, and brags that two
thirds of the edition are already sold, and that he is now sure of
success. You see what a son of the earth that is, to value books only
by the profit they bring him. In that view, I believe, it may prove a
very good book.
'Charles Townsend, who passes for the cleverest fellow in England, is
so taken with the performance, that he said to Oswald, he would put
the Duke or Buccleugh under the author's care, and would make it
worth his while to accept of that charge. As soon as I heard this,
I called on him twice with a view of talking with him about the
matter, and of convincing him of the propriety of sending that young
nobleman to Glasgow; for I could not hope, that he could offer you
any terms which would tempt you to renounce your professorship. But I
missed him. Mr. Townsend passes for being a little uncertain in his
resolutions; so, perhaps, you need not build much on this sally.
'In recompense for so many mortifying things, which nothing but truth
could have extorted from me, and which I could easily have multiplied
to a greater number, I doubt not but you are so good a christian as
to return good for evil, and to flatter my vanity, by telling me,
that all the godly in Scotland abuse me for my account of John Knox
and the reformation.'
Mr. Smith having completed, and given to the world his system of ethics,
that subject afterwards occupied but a small part of his lectures. His
attention was now chiefly directed to the illustration of those other
branches of science which he taught; and, accordingly, he seems to have
taken up the resolution, even at that early period, of publishing an
investigation into the principles of what he considered to be the only
other branch of Moral Philosophy,--Jurisprudence, the subject of which
formed the third division of his lectures. At the conclusion of the
Theory of Moral Sentiments, after treating of the importance of a system
of Natural Jurisprudence, and remarking that Grotius was the first, and
perhaps the only writer, who had given any thing like a system of those
principles which ought to run through, and be the foundation of the law
of nations, Mr. Smith promised, in another discourse, to give an account
of the general principles of law and government, and of the different
revolutions they have undergone in the different ages and periods of
society, not only in what concerns justice, but in what concerns police,
revenue, and arms, and whatever else is the object of law.
Four years after the publication of this work, and after a residence of
thirteen years in Glasgow, Mr. Smith, in 1763, was induced to relinquish
his professorship, by an invitation from the Hon. Mr. Townsend, who had
married the Duchess of Buccleugh, to accompany the young Duke, her son,
in his travels. Being indebted for this invitation to his own talents
alone, it must have appeared peculiarly flattering to him. Such an
appointment was, besides, the more acceptable, as it afforded him a
better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the internal policy of
other states, and of completing that system of political economy, the
principles of which he had previously delivered in his lectures, and
which it was then the leading object of his studies to perfect.
Mr. Smith did not, however, resign his professorship till the day after
his arrival in Paris, in February 1764. He then addressed the following
letter to the Right Honourable Thomas Millar, lord advocate of Scotland,
and then rector of the college of Glasgow:--
'MY LORD,--I take this first opportunity after my arrival in this
place, which was not till yesterday, to resign my office into the
hands of your lordship, of the dean of faculty, of the principal of
the college, and of all my other most respectable and worthy
colleagues. Into your and their hands, therefore, I do resign my
office of professor of moral philosophy in the university of Glasgow,
and in the college thereof, with all the emoluments, privileges, and
advantages, which belong to it. I reserve, however, my right to the
salary for the current half-year, which commenced at the 10th of
October, for one part of my salary, and at Martinmas last for
another; and I desire that this salary may be paid to the gentleman
who does that part of my duty which I was obliged to leave undone, in
the manner agreed on between my very worthy colleagues before we
parted. I never was more anxious for the good of the college than at
this moment; and I sincerely wish, that whoever is my successor, he
may not only do credit to the office by his abilities, but be a
comfort to the very excellent men with whom he is likely to spend his
life, by the probity of his heart and the goodness of his temper.'
His lordship having transmitted the above to the professors, a meeting
was held; on which occasion the following honourable testimony of the
sense they entertained of the worth of their former colleague was
entered in their minutes:--
'The meeting accept of Dr. Smith's resignation in terms of the above
letter; and the office of professor of moral philosophy in this
university is therefore hereby declared to be vacant. The university
at the same time, cannot help expressing their sincere regret at the
removal of Dr. Smith, whose distinguished probity and amiable
qualities procured him the esteem and affection of his colleagues;
whose uncommon genius, great abilities, and extensive learning, did
so much honour to this society. His elegant and ingenious Theory of
Moral Sentiments having recommended him to the esteem of men of taste
and literature throughout Europe, his happy talents in illustrating
abstracted subjects, and faithful assiduity in communicating useful
knowledge, distinguished him as a professor, and at once afforded the
greatest pleasure, and the most important instruction, to the youth
under his care.'
In the first visit that Mr. Smith and his noble pupil made to Paris,
they only remained ten or twelve days; after which, they proceeded to
Thoulouse, where, during a residence of eighteen months, Mr. Smith had
an opportunity of extending his information concerning the internal
policy of France, by the intimacy in which he lived with some of the
members of the parliament. After visiting several other places in the
south of France, and residing two months at Geneva, they returned about
Christmas to Paris. Here Mr. Smith ranked among his friends many of the
highest literary characters, among whom were several of the most
distinguished of those political philosophers who were denominated
Economists.
Before Mr. Smith left Paris, he received a flattering letter from the
unfortunate Duke of Rochefoucault, with a copy of a new edition of the
Maxims of his grandfather. Notwithstanding the unfavourable manner in
which the opinions of the author of that work were mentioned in the
Theory of Moral Sentiments, the Duke informed Mr. Smith, on this
occasion, that he had been prevented only from finishing a translation,
which he had begun, of his estimable system of morals, into French, by
the knowledge of having been anticipated in the design. He also
observed, that some apology might be made for his ancestor, when it was
considered, that he formed his opinions of mankind in two of the worst
situations of life,--a court and a camp. The last communication Mr.
Smith had with this nobleman was in 1789, when he gave him to
understand, that he would no longer rank the name of Rochefoncault with
that of the author of the Fable of the Bees; and, accordingly, in the
first edition that was afterwards published of the Theory of Moral
Sentiments, this promised alteration was made.
The next ten years of his life, after his arrival from the continent,
Mr. Smith passed with his mother at Kirkaldy, though he occasionally,
during that time, visited London and Edinburgh. Mr. Hume, who considered
a town as the proper scene for a man of letters, made many attempts to
prevail on him to leave his retirement.
At length, in the beginning of the year 1776, Mr. Smith accounted to the
world for his long retreat, by the publication of his 'Inquiry into the
Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations.' This work chiefly
comprehended the subject of the fourth and last division of his
lectures, namely, those political regulations that have their origin in
expediency. For about twenty years of his life, his attention had been
chiefly devoted to the study of subjects connected with the science of
political economy. His long residence in the mercantile city of Glasgow
afforded him opportunities of deriving information, in many particulars,
from the best sources; his travels on the continent contributed to
extend his knowledge, and correct many of those misapprehensions of life
and manners which the best descriptions of them are found to convey; and
the intimacy in which he lived with some of the leaders of the sect of
economists, and other writers on the subject of political economy, could
not fail to assist him in methodizing his speculations, and of adding to
the soundness of his conclusions.--After his arrival in this country, he
wanted nothing more than leisure, to arrange his materials, and prepare
them for publication: and for this purpose he passed in retirement the
subsequent ten years.
The great aim of Mr. Smith's Inquiry, the fruit of so much research, and
the work of so many years, is, as Professor Stewart observes, to direct
the policy of nations with respect to one most important class of its
laws,--those which form its system of political economy: 'and he has
unquestionably,' the same eloquent writer adds, 'had the merit of
presenting to the world the most comprehensive and perfect work that has
yet appeared on the general principles of any branch of legislation.'
'A great and leading object of Mr. Smith's speculations,' as Mr. Stewart
also observes, 'is to demonstrate, that the most effectual plan for
advancing a people to greatness, is to maintain that order of things
which nature has pointed out, by allowing every man, as long as he
observes the rules of justice, to pursue his own interest in his own
way, and to bring both his industry and his capital into the freest
competition with these of his fellow citizens.'
Several authors, in this country, had before written on commercial
affairs, but Mr. Smith was the first who reduced to a regular form and
order the information that was to be obtained on that subject, and
deduced from it the policy which an enlightened commercial nation ought
to adopt. The successful manner in which he has treated this unlimited
freedom of trade, as well as some others, and his able exposure of the
errors of the commercial system, have rendered the science of which he
treats highly interesting to the great body of the people; and a spirit
of inquiry, on every branch of political economy, has, in consequence,
been excited, which promises now, more than ever, to be attended with
the most beneficial effects. This intricate science, the most important
to the interests of mankind though long neglected, Dr. Smith has had the
merit of advancing so far, as to lay a foundation, on which, it may
safely be said, investigation may for a long time proceed.
It has frequently been alleged, that Dr. Smith was indebted for a large
portion of the reasonings in his Inquiry to the French economists, and
that the coincidence between some branches of his doctrine and theirs,
particularly those which relate to freedom of trade and the powers of
labour, is more than casual. But Professor Stewart has ably vindicated
him from this charge, and established his right to the general
principles of his doctrine, which, he thinks, were altogether original,
and the result of his own reflections. That he, however, derived some
advantage from his intimacy with Turgot, and those great men who were at
the head of the sect of economists, and, perhaps, adopted some of their
illustrations, it would be as unnecessary to deny, as it would he far
from discreditable to his talents to acknowledge.
There is also a similar, or perhaps a greater coincidence between many
parts of his doctrine and the opinions of Sir James Stewart, as detailed
in his 'Inquiry into the Principles of Political Economy.' This
congruity of opinion is chiefly apparent in their respective conclusions
concerning the effects of competition,--the principles of exchangeable
value,--the relation between the interest of money and the profit of
stock,--the functions of coin,--the rise and progress of credit,--and
the sources and limits of taxation. As this author had published his
Inquiry many years before Dr. Smith's work appeared, and had, besides,
lived in great intimacy with him, there was some reason to believe, what
has been often asserted, that he possessed a just claim to some of the
doctrines contained in that work, though Dr. Smith never once mentioned
his name in any part of his work. But the present Sir James Stewart, who
has recently published a full edition of the writings of his father,
relinquishes, on his part, all such pretensions. With the partiality of
a friend, in ranking his father with Dr. Smith, he gives it as his
opinion, however, that both had, with original powers of equal strength,
drawn their knowledge from the same source, the French economists.
Dr. Mandeville has also, of late, got the credit of being the author of
those Principles of Political Economy, which have interested the world
for the last fifty years, and to him alone, it is said, not only the
English, but also the French writers, are indebted for their doctrines
in that science. In the work of this eccentric writer, there seems,
indeed, a similarity of opinion on some of the more obvious sources of
wealth, particularly in the division of labour, which Dr. Smith
investigates so fully; and in the erroneous doctrine of productive and
non-productive labour; and also, perhaps, on some other points: but it
would be difficult to show, that he ought, on this account, to be
considered the author of all, or even the chief part of what has been
written on the subject. On this, as well as on all questions of a
similar nature, a great diversity of opinions will subsist. But it may
be a matter of curiosity to those who are unacquainted with his work,
the Fable of the Bees, not only to trace the connection of that author's
sentiments with what is advanced by subsequent writers on this important
subject, but also to learn his peculiar notions of morality, that
attracted, at one time, so much attention. These last, Dr. Smith says,
though described by a lively and humorous, yet coarse and rustic
eloquence, which throws an air of truth and probability on them, are,
almost in every respect, erroneous.
Soon after the publication of the Wealth of Nations, Mr. Smith received
the following congratulatory letter from Mr. Hume, six months before his
death, dated Edinburgh, 1st April 1776.
'_Euge! Belle!_ Dear Mr. Smith--I am much pleased with your
performance, and the perusal of it has taken me from a state of great
anxiety. It was a work of so much expectation, by yourself, by your
friends, and by the public, that I trembled for its appearance; but
am now much relieved; not but that the reading of it necessarily
requires so much attention, and the public is disposed to give so
little, that I shall still doubt for some time of its being at first
very popular. But it has depth, and solidity, and acuteness, and is
so much illustrated by curious facts, that it must at last take the
public attention. It is probably much improved by your last abode in
London. If you were here at my fireside, I should dispute some of
your principles. But these, and a hundred other points, are fit, only
to be discussed in conversation. I hope it will be soon, for I am in
a very bad state of health, and cannot afford a long delay.'
The publication of this great work drew praise to its author, indeed,
from many different quarters.--Dr. Barnard, in a political epistle,
addressed to Sir Joshua Reynolds, where the characteristic qualities of
some eminent literary men of that time are brought forward, spoke of
Smith as one who would teach him how to think. Gibbon made honourable
mention of him in his Roman history; and Mr. Fox contributed, in no
small degree, to extend his reputation, by observing in the House of
Commons, that 'the way, as my learned friend Dr. Adam Smith says, for a
nation, as well as an individual, to be rich, is for both to live within
their income.'
The opinion which Dr. Johnson delivered, at that time, on its being
alleged by Sir John Pringle, that a person who, like Dr. Smith, was not
practically acquainted with trade, could not be qualified to write on
that subject, may also be mentioned here, though somewhat erroneous, as
far as it respects the received doctrines of Political Economy:--'He is
mistaken,' said Johnson. 'A man who has never been engaged in trade
himself, may undoubtedly write well on trade; and there is nothing which
requires more to be illustrated by philosophy than trade does. As to
mere wealth, that is to say, money, it is clear that one nation, or one
individual, cannot increase its store but by making another poorer; but
trade procures what is more valuable, the reciprocation of the peculiar
advantages of different countries. A merchant seldom thinks of any but
his own trade. To write a good book upon it, a man must have extensive
views. It is not necessary to have practised, to write well upon a
subject.'[2]
On the Inquiry into the Causes of the Wealth of Nations, it only remains
farther to be observed, that its success has been every way commensurate
to its merits. It has, however, been often regretted, that the author
did not live to favour the world with his reasonings on those important
events which have taken place since 1784, when he put the last hand to
his invaluable work. That another, with competent talents, and a mind
disposed to the task, should soon appear, to treat of these occurrences,
and give a satisfactory view of the progress of the science from that
time to the present, is not to be expected. But as the honour to be
gained from a successful execution of such an undertaking is very
considerable, it is not to be wondered at that an attempt of this kind
should be made. Accordingly, Mr Playfair of London has had the boldness
to follow Smith, by endeavouring to supply, in part, this desideratum,
by adding supplementary chapters and notes to the Treatise on the Wealth
of Nations.
But it is greatly to be feared, that there are few persons who have read
this improved edition, as it is called, of Dr. Smith's Inquiry, but will
still look forward to the accomplishment of the wishes they must
previously have formed, for a continuation, and probably an
illustration, of the discussions contained in that work. Leaving,
therefore, the supplementary chapters and elucidations of Mr Playfair,
it must be observed, that Dr. Smith has, on this occasion, been equally
unfortunate in a biographer. The detail of his peaceful life is almost
lost among dissertations on the wickedness of atheism and the horrors of
a revolution. But these dissertations, strangely misplaced as they
appear to be, would certainly not alone have been sufficient to attract
observation here, whatever latitude the author might have allowed to
himself on such subjects. When he goes on, however, to apologise for Dr.
Smith's acquaintance with some individuals among the economists, and to
connect the whole of that sect with those philosophers to whom he
ascribes the evils which have so long afflicted France, his opinions
become still more insupportable. It will, perhaps, be said, and with
some reason, that, in this instance, at least, the writer has followed
those alarmists, who, on any men of learning belonging to that country
being mentioned, immediately ally them to the revolutionists without
regard to difference of opinion, or distance of time.
The reputation, however, of the economists is too well established to be
affected, either by the clamours of the ignorant, or the mad
intemperance of political alarmists. The doctrine of the great men who
formed the school of the economists, was, that the produce of the land
is the sole or principal source of the revenue and wealth of every
country; and this doctrine, with the manner of deriving from it the
greatest possible advantage, it is almost universally acknowledged,
engaged entirely their attention. Dr. Smith, who lived in great
intimacy with many of the founders of that sect, does ample justice, on
every occasion, to the purity of their views; and indeed they, as well
as himself, it has always been said, by the impartial and well informed,
were ever animated by a zeal for the best interests of society.
M. Quesnai, the first of that sect, and the author of the Economical
Table, a work of the greatest profoundness and originality, was, in
particular, represented by Mr. Smith as a man of the greatest modesty
and simplicity; and his system he pronounced, with all its
imperfections, to be the nearest approximation to the truth, of any that
had then been published on the principles of political science. His
veneration for this worthy man was even so great, that had he lived, it
was his intention to have inscribed to him the Inquiry into the Causes
of the Wealth of Nations.
Nor will the memory of those illustrious men be soon forgotten,
notwithstanding the calumnies with which it has been charged. It may
safely be predicted, in the words of a highly respectable periodical
publication, that 'Those prospects of political improvements which
flattered the benevolent anticipations of the economists, will soon be
recognised as sound conclusions of science; and it will at length be
acknowledged that Turgot, Mirabeau, and Quesnai, were the friends of
mankind, and that their genius and their labours were devoted to the
refinement of social happiness and the consolidation of the political
fabric.'[3]
The life of Mr. Smith, after the publication of his Inquiry, might be
said to draw towards a close. The following particulars of the last
years, are mostly extracted from Professor Stewart's Life of this
incomparable writer.
After residing some time in London, he was appointed one of the
commissioners of customs in Scotland, in 1778, when he removed to
Edinburgh. He was accompanied by his mother, who, though in extreme old
age, possessed a considerable share of good health; and his cousin, Miss
Douglass, who had long resided with him at Glasgow, undertook to
superintend his domestic economy.
The Duke of Buccleugh had continued to allow Mr. Smith L.300 a-year, and
the accession which he now received to his income enabled him to live,
not only with comfort and independence, but to indulge the benevolence
of his heart, in making numerous private benefactions.
During the remaining period of his life, he appears to have done little
more than to discharge, with peculiar exactness, the duties of his
office, which, though they required no great exertion, were sufficient
to divert his attention from his studies. He very early felt the
infirmities of old age, but his health and strength were not greatly
affected till he was left alone, by the death of his mother, in 1784,
and of his cousin four years after. They had been the objects of his
affection for more than sixty years; and in their society he had
enjoyed, from his infancy, all that he ever knew of the endearments of a
family. In return for the anxious and watchful solicitude of his mother
during infancy, he had the singular good fortune of being able to show
his gratitude to her during a very long life; and it was often observed,
that the nearest avenue to his heart was through his mother.
He now gradually declined till the period of his death, which happened
in 1790. His last illness, which arose from a chronic obstruction in the
bowels, was lingering and painful; but he had every consolation to
soothe it which he could desire, from the tenderest sympathy of his
friends, and from the completest resignation of his own mind.
His friends had been in use to sup with him every Sunday. The last time
he received them, which was a few days before his death, there was a
pretty numerous meeting; but not being able to sit up as usual, he
retired to bed before supper. On going away, he took leave of the
company, by saying, 'I believe we must adjourn this meeting to some
other place.'
In a letter addressed, in the year 1787, to the principal of the
university of Glasgow, in consequence of his being elected rector of
that learned body, a pleasing memorial remains of the satisfaction with
which he always recollected that period of his literary career, which
had been more peculiarly consecrated to his academical studies. On that
occasion he writes:--
'No preferment could have given me so much real satisfaction. No man
can owe greater obligations to a society than I do to the university
of Glasgow. They educated me; they sent me to Oxford. Soon after my
return to Scotland, they elected me one of their own members, and
afterwards preferred me to another office, to which the abilities and
virtues of the never-to-be-forgotten Dr. Hutcheson had given a
superior degree of illustration. The period of thirteen years, which
I spent as a member of that society, I remember as by far the most
useful, and therefore, as by far the happiest and most honourable
period of my life; and now, after three-and-twenty years absence, to
be remembered in so very agreeable a manner by my old friends and
protectors, gives me a heart-felt joy which I cannot easily express
to you.'
Not long before the death of Smith, finding his end approach rapidly, he
gave orders to destroy all his manuscripts, excepting some detached
essays, which he entrusted to the care of his executors. With the
exception of these essays, all his papers were committed to the flames.
What were the particular contents of these papers was not known, even to
his most intimate friends. The additions to the Theory of Moral
Sentiments, most of which were composed under severe illness, had
fortunately been sent to the press in the beginning of the preceding
winter; and the author lived to see the publication of this new
edition.[4]
Some time before his last illness, when he had occasion to go to London,
he enjoined his friends, to whom he had entrusted the disposal of his
manuscripts, to destroy, in the event of his death, all the volumes of
his lectures, doing with the rest what they pleased. When he had become
weak, and saw the last period of his life approach, he spoke to his
friends again upon the same subject. They entreated him to make his mind
easy, as he might depend upon their fulfilling his desire. Though he
then seemed to be satisfied, he, some days afterwards, begged that the
volume might be immediately destroyed; which was accordingly done.
Mr. Riddell, an intimate friend of Mr. Smith, mentions, that on one of
these occasions he regretted he had done so little; 'but I meant,' he
added, 'to have done more; and there are materials in my papers of which
I could make a great deal.--But that is now out of the question.'
That the idea of destroying such unfinished works as might be in his
possession at the time of his death, was not the effect of any sudden or
hasty resolution, appears from the following letter to Mr. Hume, written
in 1773, at the time when he was preparing for a journey to London, with
the prospect of a pretty long absence from Scotland.
'My dear friend,--As I have left the care of all my literary papers
to you, I must tell you, that except those which I carry along with
me, there are none worth the publication, but a fragment of a great
work, which contains a history of the astronomical systems that were
successively in fashion down to the time of Descartes. Whether that
might not be published as a fragment of an intended juvenile work, I
leave entirely to your judgment, though I begin to suspect myself,
that there is more refinement than solidity in some parts of it. This
little work you will find in a thin folio paper book in my back-room.
All the other loose papers which you will find in that desk, or
within the glass folding-doors of a bureau, which stands in my
bed-room, together with about eighteen thin paper folio books, which
you will likewise find within the same glass folding doors, I desire
may be destroyed without any examination. Unless I die very suddenly,
I shall take care that the papers I carry with me shall he carefully
sent to you.'
But he himself long survived his friend Mr. Hume. The persons entrusted
with his remaining papers were Dr. Black and Dr. Hutton, his executors,
with whom he had long lived in habits of the closest friendship. These
gentlemen afterwards collected into a volume, such of the writings of
Dr. Smith as were fitted for publication: and they appeared in 1795,
under the title of _Essays on Philosophical Subjects_. These essays had
been composed early in life, and were designed to illustrate the
principles of the human mind, by a theoretical deduction of the progress
of the sciences and the liberal arts. The most considerable piece in
this volume is, on the principles which lead and direct philosophical
inquiries, illustrated by the history of astronomy, ancient physics, and
ancient logic and metaphysics. The others, with the exception of an
essay on the external senses, relate to the imitative and liberal arts.
The contents of this volume, Mr. Smith's executors observe, appear to be
parts of a plan he once had formed for giving a connected history of the
liberal sciences and elegant arts; but which he had been obliged to
abandon, as being far too extensive; and these parts lay beside him
neglected till after his death. In them, however, will be found that
happy connection, that full and accurate expression, and the same
copiousness and facility of illustration, which are conspicuous in the
rest of his writings.
As a writer, the character of Mr. Smith is so well known, that any
observation on his merits, must appear almost unnecessary. His literary
fame is circumscribed by no ordinary limits. To the voice of his own
country, is added the testimony of Europe, and, indeed, of the civilized
world. And had even only one volume of his inestimable writings
appeared, his name would have been carried down to posterity in the
first rank of those illustrious characters that adorn the last century.
In the words of Professor Stewart, it may be said, that,--of the
intellectual gifts and attainments by which he was so eminently
distinguished;--of the originality and comprehensiveness of his views;
the extent, the variety, and the correctness of his information; the
inexhaustible fertility of his invention; and the ornaments which his
rich and beautiful imagination had borrowed from classical culture;--he
has left behind him lasting monuments.
One observation more may he added to what is now said on his writings,
that, whatever be the nature of his subject, he seldom misses an
opportunity of indulging his curiosity, in tracing, from the principles
of human nature, or from the circumstances of society, the origin of the
opinions and the institutions which he describes.
With regard to the private character of this amiable and enlightened
philosopher, it fortunately happens, that the most certain of all
testimonies to his private worth may be found in the confidence,
respect, and attachment which followed him through all the various
relations of life. There were many peculiarities, indeed, both in his
manners and in his intellectual habits; but to those who knew him, these
peculiarities, so far from detracting from the respect which his
abilities commanded, added an irresistible charm to his conversation,
and strongly displayed the artless simplicity of his heart. The
comprehensive speculations with which he had always been occupied, and
the variety of materials which his own invention continually supplied to
his thoughts, rendered him habitually inattentive to familiar objects,
and to common occurrences. On this account, he was remarkable,
throughout the whole of life, for speaking to himself when alone, and
for being so absent in company, as, on some occasions, to exceed almost
what the fancy of a Bruyere could imagine. In company, he was apt to be
engrossed by his studies; and appeared, at times, by the motion of his
lips, as well as by his looks and gestures, to be in the fervour of
composition. It was observed, that he rarely started a topic himself, or
even fell in easily with the common dialogue of conversation. When he
did speak, however, he was somewhat apt to convey his ideas in the form
of a lecture; but this never proceeded from a wish to engross the
discourse, or to gratify his vanity. His own inclination disposed him so
strongly to enjoy, in silence, the gaiety of those around him, that his
friends were often led to concert little schemes, in order to bring on
the subjects most likely to interest him.
SHORT VIEW
OF THE
DOCTRINE OF SMITH, COMPARED WITH THAT OF THE FRENCH ECONOMISTS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. GARNIER.
The ancient philosophers were little accustomed to employ themselves in
the observation of those laws which regulate the distribution of riches
among the different orders of society in a nation, or in the search
after the sources of the increase of its wealth. In fact, political
economy is a science of very modern origin; for although, towards the
end of the seventeenth century, several writers, both of France and
England, had begun to discuss the comparative advantages of agriculture
and commerce, yet it was not till the middle of the eighteenth, that any
thing like a complete system appeared upon the growth and distribution
of national wealth. At this period, the philosophical Quesnai directed
his attention to this very abstract subject, and became the founder of a
celebrated school, which may boast among its adherents many
distinguished men of talents and extensive knowledge.
All philosophical sects owe their first origin and foundation to the
discovery of some great truth; and it is the madness inspiring their
members, to deduce every thing from this new discovery, that contributes
most to their downfal. Thus it was with the economists. They saw that
the original source of all wealth was the soil, and that the labour of
its cultivation produced not only the means of subsisting the labourer,
but also a neat surplus, which went to the increase of the existing
stock: while, on the other hand, the labour applied to the productions
of the earth, the labour of manufactures and commerce, can only add to
the material a value exactly equal to that expended during the execution
of the work; by which means, in the end, this species of labour operates
no real change on the total sum of national riches. They perceived that
the landed proprietors are the first receivers of the whole wealth of
the community; and that, whatever is consumed by those who are not
possessed of land, must come, directly or indirectly, from the former;
and hence, that these receive wages from the proprietors, and that the
circulation of national wealth, is, in fact, only a succession of
exchanges between these two classes of men, the proprietors furnishing
their wealth, and the non-proprietors giving as an equivalent their
labour and industry. They perceived that a tax, being a portion of the
national wealth applied to public use, in every instance, however
levied, bears finally upon the landed proprietors, inasmuch as they are
the distributors of that wealth, either by retrenching their luxuries,
or by loading them with an additional expense; and that, therefore,
every tax which is not levied directly on the rude produce of the earth,
falls in the end on the landed proprietors, with a surplus produce, from
which the amount of the revenue receives no addition.
These assertions are almost all incontestible, and capable of a rigorous
demonstration; and
|
has once more
for a short time possessed some importance in Greece succumbs to it in
turn; first Sparta, then Thebes and Athens. The attempts to establish
permanent and assured conditions by local unions in small districts, as
in Chalcidice under Olynthus, in Bœotia and Arcadia, were never able to
hold out more than a short time. It was useless to look longer for the
fulfilment of the national destiny. Feeble as the Persian kingdom was
internally, every revolt against it, to say nothing of an attempt to make
conquests and acquire a new field of colonisation in Asia,--the programme
that Isocrates repeatedly urged upon the nation,--was made impossible
by internal strife. Prosperity was ruined, the energy of the nation was
exhausted in the wild feuds of brigands, the most desolate conditions
prevailed in all communities. Greek history ends in chaos, in a hopeless
struggle of all against all.
In this same period, to be sure, the positive, constructive criticism of
Socrates and his school rose in opposition to the negative tendencies of
sophistry; and made the attempt to put an end to the political misery,
to create by a proper education the true citizen who looks only to the
common welfare in place of the ignorant citizen of the existing states,
who was governed only by self-interest. These efforts resulted in the
development of science and the preservation for all future time of the
highest achievements of the intellectual life of Hellas, but they could
not produce an internal transformation of men and states, whose earthly
life does not lie within the sphere of the problems of theoretical
perception, but in that of the problems of will and power. So at the same
time that Greek culture has reached the highest point of its development,
prepared to become the culture of the world, the Greek nation is
condemned to complete impotence.
For the development in the West, different as was its course, led to no
other result. In the fifth century Greece controlled almost all Sicily
except the western point, the whole south of Italy up to Tarentum, Elea
and Posidonia and the coast of Campania. Nowhere was an enemy to be seen
that might have become dangerous. The Carthaginians were repulsed, and
the power of the Etruscans, who in the sixth century had striven for
the hegemony in Italy, decayed, partly from internal weakness, partly
in consequence of the revolt of their subjects, especially the Romans
and the Sabines. The Cumæans under Aristodemus with the Sabines as their
allies defeated Aruns, the son of Porsena of Clusium, at Aricia about 500
B.C., and in the year 474 the Etruscan sea power suffered defeat at Cumæ
from the fleet of Hiero of Syracuse.
The cities of western Greece stood then as if founded for all eternity;
they were adorned with splendid buildings, the gayest and most luxurious
life developed in their streets; and they had leisure enough, after the
Greek manner, to dissipate their energies, which were not claimed by
external enemies, in internal strife and in struggles for the hegemony.
Only the bold attempts which Phocæa made in the sixth century to turn
the western basin of the Mediterranean likewise into a Greek sea, to
get a firm footing in Corsica and southern Spain, had succumbed to the
resistance of the Carthaginians, who were in alliance with the Etruscans.
Only in the north, on the coast of Liguria from the Alps to the
Pyrenees, Massalia maintained its independence. Southern Spain, Gades,
and the coast of the land of Tarshish (Tartessus) were occupied by the
Carthaginians about the middle of the fifth century; and the Greeks and
all foreign mariners in general were cut off from the navigation of the
ocean, as well as from the coasts of North Africa and Sardinia.
In the fourth century the political situation is totally changed in
both east and west. The Greeks are reduced to the defensive and lose
one position after the other. A few years after the destruction of the
Athenian expedition the Carthaginians stretched out their hands for
Sicily; in the years 409 and 406 they take and destroy Selinus, Himera,
and Agrigentum; in the wars of the following years every other Greek city
of the island except Syracuse was temporarily occupied and plundered by
them.
In Italy after the middle of the fifth century a new people made their
entrance into history, the Sabellian (Oscan) mountain tribes. From the
valleys of the Abruzzi and the Samnitic Apennines they pressed forward
towards the rich plains of the coast, and the land of civilisation with
its inhabitants succumbed to them almost everywhere. To be sure, the
Sabines under Rome defended themselves against the Æquians and Volscians,
and so did the Apulians in the east against the Frentanians and Pentrians
of Samnium. But the Etruscans of Capua and Nola and the Greeks of Cumæ
were overcome (438 and 421 B.C.) by the Sabellian Campanians, and Naples
alone in this district was able to preserve its independence. In the
south the Lucanians advanced farther and farther, took Posidonia (Pæstum)
in 400 B.C., Pyxus, Laos, and harassed the Greek cities of the east coast
and the south.
From between these hostile powers, the Carthaginians and the Sabellians,
an energetic ruler, Dionysius of Syracuse (405-367 B.C.), once more
rescued Hellenism. In great battles, with heavy losses to be sure, and
only by the employment of the military power of the Oscans, of Campanian
mercenary troops and of the Lucanians, he succeeded in setting up once
more a powerful Greek kingdom, including two-thirds of Sicily, the south
of Italy as far as Crotona and Terina; he held Carthage in restraint,
scourged the Etruscans in the western sea, and at the same time occupied
a number of important points on the Adriatic, Lissus and Pharos in
Illyria, several Apulian towns, Ancona, and Hadria at the mouth of the
Po in Italy. Dionysius had covered his rear by a close alliance with
Sparta, which not only insured him against any republican uprising,
but made possible an uninterrupted recruiting of mercenaries from the
Peloponnesus. In return Dionysius supported the Spartans in carrying
through the Kings’ Peace and against their enemies elsewhere.
The kingdom of Dionysius seemed to rest on a firm and permanent
foundation. Had it continued to exist the whole course of the world’s
history would have been different; Hellenism could have maintained its
position in the West, which might even have received again a Greek
impress instead of becoming Italic and Roman.
But the kingdom of Dionysius was in the most direct opposition to all
that Greek political theory demanded; it was a despotic state which
made the free self-government of communities an empty form in the
capital Syracuse, and in the subject territories, for the most part,
simply abolished the city-state, the _polis_. The necessity of a strong
government that would protect Hellenism in the West against its external
enemies was indeed recognised by the discerning, but internally it seemed
possible to relax and to effect a more ideal political formation.
Under the successor of the old despot, Dionysius II, Plato’s pupil, Dion,
and Plato himself, made an attempt at reform, first with the ruler’s
support, and then in opposition to him. The result was, that the west
Grecian kingdom was shattered (357-353 B.C.), while the establishment of
the ideal state was not successful; instead anarchy appeared again, and
the struggle of all against all. Only the enemies of the nation gained.
In Sicily, to be sure, Timoleon (345-337) was able to establish a certain
degree of order; he overthrew the tyrants, repulsed the Carthaginians,
restored the cities and gave them a modified democratic constitution.
But the federation of these republics had no permanence. On the death
of Timoleon the internal and external strife began anew, and the final
verdict was uttered by the governor of the Carthaginian province.
In Italy, on the other hand, the majority of the Greek cities were
conquered by the Lucanians or the newly risen Bruttians. On the west
coast only Naples and Elea were left, in the south Rhegium; in the east
Locri, Crotona, and Thurii had great difficulty in defending themselves
against the Bruttians. Tarentum alone (upon which Heraclea and Metapontum
were dependent) possessed a considerable power, owing to its incomparable
situation on a sea-girt peninsula and to the trade and wealth which
furnished it the means again and again to enlist Greek chieftains and
mercenaries in its service for the struggle against its enemies.
It was as Plato wrote to the Syracusans in the year 352 B.C. If matters
go on in this way, no end can be foreseen “until the whole population,
supporters of tyrants and democrats, alike, has been destroyed, the
Greek language has disappeared from Sicily and the island fallen under
the power and rule of the Phœnicians or Oscans” (_Epist._ 8, 353 e).
In a century the prophecy was fulfilled. But its range extends a great
deal farther than Plato dreamed; it is the fate not only of the western
Greeks, but of the whole Hellenic nation, that he foretells here.
The Greek states were not equal to the task of maintaining the position
of their nation as a world-power and gaining control of the world for
their civilisation. When they had completely failed, a half-Greek
neighbouring people, the Macedonians, attempted to carry out this
mission. The impotence of the Greek world gave King Philip (359-336)
the opportunity, which he seized with the greatest skill and energy, of
establishing a strong Macedonian kingdom, including all Thrace as far
as the Danube, extending on the west to the Ionian Sea, and finally,
on the basis of a general peace, of uniting the Hellenic world of the
mother-country in a firm league under Macedonian hegemony (337 B.C.).
Philip adopted the national programme of the Hellenes proposed by
Isocrates and began war in Asia against the Persians (336 B.C.). His
youthful son Alexander then carried it out on a far greater scale than
his father had ever intended. His aim was to subdue the whole known
world, the οικουμένη, simultaneously to Macedonian rule and Hellenic
civilisation. Moreover, as the descendant of Hercules and Achilles, as
king of Macedonia and leader of the Hellenic league, imbued by education
with Hellenic culture, the triumphs of which he had enthusiastically
absorbed, he felt himself called as none other to this work. Darius III,
after the victory of Issus (November 333 B.C.), offered him the surrender
of Western Asia as far as the Euphrates; and the interests of his native
state and also,--we must not fail to note,--the true interests of
Hellenic culture would have been far better served by such self-restraint
than by the ways that Alexander followed.
But he would go farther, out into the immeasurable; the attraction to
the infinite, to the comprehension and mastery of the universe, both
intellectual and material, that lies in the nature of the yet inchoate
uniform world-culture, finds its most vivid expression in its champion.
When, indeed, he would advance farther and farther, from the Punjab
to the Ganges and to the ends of the world, his instrument, his army,
failed him; he had to turn back. But the Persian kingdom, Asia as far as
the Indus, he conquered, brought permanently under Macedonian rule, and
laid the foundation for its Hellenisation. With this, however, only the
smaller portion of his mission was fulfilled. The East everywhere offered
further tasks which had in part been undertaken by the Persian kingdom at
the height of its power under Darius I--the exploration of Arabia, of the
Indian Ocean, and of the Caspian Sea, the subjugation of the predatory
nomads of the great steppe that extends from the Danube through southern
Russia and Turania as far as the Jaxartes.
It was of far more importance that Hellenism had a task in the West like
that in the East; to save the Greeks of Italy and Sicily, to overcome the
Carthaginians and the tribes of Italy, to turn the whole Mediterranean
into a Greek sea, was just as urgently necessary as the conquest of
Western Asia. It was the aim that Alcibiades had set himself and on which
Athens had gone to wreck.
In the same years in which the Macedonian king was conquering the
Persians, his brother-in-law, Alexander of Epirus, at the request of
Tarentum, had devoted himself to this task. After some success at the
beginning he had been overcome by the Lucanians and Bruttians and the
opposition of Hellenic particularism (334-331 B.C.).
Now the Macedonian king made preparations to take up this work also and
thus complete his conquest of the world. That the resources of Macedonia
were inadequate for this purpose was perfectly clear to him. Since he had
rejected the proposals of Darius he had employed the conquered Asiatics
in the government of his empire, and above all had endeavoured to form an
auxiliary force to his army out of the people that had previously ruled
Asia. In his naïve overvaluation of education, due to the Socratic belief
in the omnipotence of the intellect, he thought he could make Macedonians
out of the young Persians. But as ruler of the world he must no longer
bear the fetters which the usage of his people and the terms of the
Hellenic league put upon him. He must stand above all men and peoples,
his will must be law to them, like the commandment of the gods. The march
to Ammon (331 B.C.), which at the time enjoyed the highest regard in the
Greek world, inaugurated this departure. This elevation of the kingship
to divinity was not an outgrowth of oriental views, although it resembles
them, but of political necessity and of the loftiest ideas of Greek
culture--of the teaching of Greek philosophy, common to all Socratic
schools, of the unlimited sovereignty of the true sage, whose judgment no
commandment can fetter; he is no other than the true king.
Henceforth this view is inseparable from the idea of kingship among all
occidental nations down to our own times. It returns in the absolute
monarchy that Cæsar wished to found at Rome and which then gradually
develops out of the principate of Augustus, until Diocletian and
Constantine bring it to perfection; it returns, only apparently modified
by Christian views, in the absolute monarchy of modern times, in kingship
by the grace of God as well as in the universal monarchy of Napoleon, and
in the divine foundation of the autocracy of the Czar.
But Alexander was not able to bring his state to completion. In the midst
of his plans, in the full vigour of youth, just as a boundless future
seemed to lie before him, he was carried off by death at Babylon, on the
thirteenth of June, 323 B.C., in the thirty-third year of his age.
With the death of Alexander his plans were buried. He left no heir who
could have held the empire together; his generals fought for the spoils.
The result of the mighty struggles of the period of the Diadochi, which
covers almost fifty years (323-277 B.C.), is, that the Macedonian empire
is divided into three great powers; the kingdom of the Lagidæ, who from
the seaport of Alexandria on the extreme western border of Egypt control
the eastern Mediterranean with all its coasts, and the valley of the
Nile; the kingdom of the Seleucidæ, who strive in continual wars to hold
Asia together; and the kingdom of the Antigonidæ, who obtained possession
of Macedonia, depopulated by the conquest of the world and again by
the fearful Celtic invasion (280), and who, when they wish to assert
themselves as a great power, must attempt to acquire an ascendency in
some form or other over Greece and the Ægean Sea.
Of these three powers the kingdom of the Lagidæ is most firmly welded
together, being in full possession of all the resources that trade and
sea power, money and politics, afford. To re-establish the universal
monarchy was never its aim, even when circumstances seemed to tempt
to it. But as long as strong rulers wear the crown it always stands
on the offensive against the other two; it harasses them continually,
hinders them at every step from consolidating, wrests from the Seleucidæ
almost all the coast towns of Palestine and Phœnicia as far as Thrace,
temporarily gains control of the islands of the Ægean, and supports every
hostile movement that is made in Greece against Macedonia. The Greek
mother-country is thus continually forced anew into the struggle, the
play of intrigue between the court of Alexandria and the Macedonian state
never gives it an opportunity to become settled. All revolts of the Greek
world received the support of Alexandria; the uprising of Athens and
Sparta in the war of Chremonides (264), the attempt of Aratus to give the
Peloponnesus an independent organisation by means of the Achæan league
(beginning in 252), and finally the uprising of Sparta under Cleomenes.
The aim of giving the Greek world an independent form was never attained;
finally, when at the end of the reign of Ptolemy III Euergetes (221) the
kingdom of the Lagidæ withdraws and lets Cleomenes fall, the peninsula
comes anew under the supremacy of the Macedonians, whom Aratus the
“liberator” had himself brought back to the citadel of Corinth. But
neither can the Macedonian king attain the full power that Philip and
Alexander had possessed a century earlier; in particular, its resources
are insufficient, even in alliance with the Achæans, to overthrow the
warlike, piratical Ætolian state, which is constantly increasing in
power. So Greece never gets out of these hopeless conditions; on the
contrary, indeed, through the emigration of the population to the Asiatic
colonies, through the decay of a vigorous peasant population which began
as early as in the fourth century, through the economic decline of
commerce and industry caused by the shifting of the centre of gravity to
the east, its situation becomes more and more wretched and the population
constantly diminishes. It can never attain peace of itself, but only
through an energetic and ruthlessly despotic foreign rule.
In the East, on the contrary, an active and hopeful life developed. The
great kings of the Lagidæan kingdom, the first three Ptolemies, fully
appreciated the importance of intellectual life to the position of
their kingdom in the world. All that Greek culture offered they tried
to attract to Alexandria, and they managed to win for their capital the
leading position in literature and science. But in other respects the
kingdom of the Lagidæ is by no means the state in which the life of the
new time reaches its full development. However much, in opposition to the
Greek world, in conflict with Macedonia, they coquette with the Hellenic
idea of liberty, within their own jurisdiction they cannot endure the
independence and the free constitution of the Greek _polis_, and their
subjects are by no means initiated into the new world-culture, but are
kept in complete subjugation, sharply distinguished from the ruling
classes, the Macedonians and Greeks, to whom also no freedom of political
movement whatever is granted.[1]
The development in Asia follows a very different course. Here, through
the activity of the great founders of cities, Antigonus, Lysimachus,
Seleucus I, and Antiochus I, one Greek city arises after another, from
the Hellespont through Asia Minor, Syria, Mesopotamia, Babylonia, Media,
as far as Bactria and India; and from them grow the great centres of
culture, full of independent life, by which the Asiatic population is
introduced to the modern world-civilisation and becomes Hellenised.
Antigonus deliberately supported the independence of the cities within
the great organic body of the kingdom, thus following on the lines of the
Hellenic league under Philip and Alexander. By the pressure of political
necessity and the fact that they could maintain their power only by
winning the attachment and fidelity of their subjects, the Seleucidæ were
forced into the same ways. And side by side with the great kingdom the
political struggle creates a great number of powers of the second rank,
in part pure Greek communities, like Rhodes, Chios, Cyzicus, Byzantium,
Heraclea, in part newly formed states of Greek origin, like the kingdom
of Pergamus and later the Bactrian kingdom, in part fragments of the old
Persian kingdom, like Bithynia, Pontus, Cappadocia, Armenia, Atropatene,
and not much later the Parthian kingdom. Among these states the eastern
retain their oriental character, while the western are forced to pass
more and more into the culture of Hellenism.
Destructive as were the effects of the continual wars, and especially
of the raids of the Celtic hordes in Asia Minor, nevertheless there
pulsates here a fresh, progressive life, to which the future seems to
belong. To be sure, there is no lack of counter disturbance; beneath the
surface of Hellenism, the native population that is absorbed into the
Greek life everywhere preserves its own character, not through active
resistance, but through the passivity of its nature. When the orientals
become Hellenised, Hellenism itself begins at the same time to take on an
oriental impress.
But in this there lies no danger as yet. Hellenism everywhere retains
the upper hand and seems to come nearer and nearer to the goal of its
mission for the world. In all fields of intellectual life the cultured
classes have undisputed control and can look down with absolute contempt
on the currents that move the masses far beneath them; the exponents of
philosophical enlightenment may imagine they have completely dominated
them. When the great ideas upon which Hellenism is based have been
created by the classical period and new ones can no longer be placed
beside them, the new time sets to work to perfect what it has inherited.
The third century is the culmination of ancient science.
However, this whole civilisation lacks one thing, and that is a state
of natural growth. Of all the states that developed out of Alexander’s
empire, the kingdom of the Antigonidæ in Macedonia was the only one that
had a national basis; and therefore, in spite of the scantiness of its
resources, it was also the most capable of resistance of them all. All
others, on the contrary, were purely artificial political combinations,
lacking that innate necessity vital to the full power of a state. They
might have been altogether different, or they might not have been at
all. The separation of state and nationality, which is the result of
the development of the ancient East, exists in them also; they are not
supported by the population, which, by the contingencies of political
development, is for the moment included in them, and their subjects, so
far as the individual man or community is not bound to them by personal
advantage, have no further interest in their existence. To be sure, had
they maintained their existence for centuries, the power of custom might
have sufficed to give them a firmer constitution, such as many later
similar political formations have acquired and such as the Austrian
monarchy possesses to-day; and as a matter of fact we find the loyalty
of subjects to the reigning dynasty already quite strongly developed in
the kingdom of the Seleucidæ. But a national state can never arise on
the basis of a universal, denationalised civilisation, and the unity
is consequently only political, based only upon the dynasty and its
political successes. Therefore, except in Macedonia, none of these states
can, even in the struggle for existence, set in motion the full national
force supplied by internal unity.
The resources at the command of the Macedonio-Hellenic states were
consumed in the struggle with one another; nothing was left for the great
task that was set them in the West. The remains of Greek nationality,
still maintaining their existence here, looked in vain for a deliverer
to come from the East. An attempt made by the Spartan prince Cleonymus,
in response to the appeal of Tarentum, to take up the struggle in Italy
against the Lucanians and Romans, failed miserably through the incapacity
of its leader (303-302 B.C.). In Sicily, to be sure, the gifted general
and statesman Agathocles (317-289) had once more established, amid
streams of blood, and by mighty and ruthless battles against both
internal enemies and rivals and against Carthage, a strong Greek kingdom
that reached even to Italy and the Ionian Sea. But he was never able to
attain the position taken by Dionysius, and at his death his kingdom
goes to pieces. At this point also the rôle of the Sicilian Greeks in
the history of the world is played out; they disappear from the number
of independent powers capable of maintaining themselves by their own
resources.
FOOTNOTES
[1] It is altogether wrong to regard the kingdom of the Lagidæ as the
typical state of Hellenism. Through the mass of material that the
Egyptian papyri afford a further shifting in its favour is threatened,
which must certainly lead to a very incorrect conception of the whole of
antiquity. It is frequently quite overlooked that we have to do here only
with documents from a province of the kingdom of the Lagidæ (later of
Rome) which had a quite peculiar constitution, and that these documents
therefore show by no means typical, but in every respect exceptional,
conditions. The investigators who have made this material accessible
deserve great gratitude, but it must never be overlooked that even a
small fragment of similar documents from Asia would have infinitely
greater value for the interpretation of the whole history of antiquity
and specially that of Hellenism.
[Illustration: GREEK CITY SEALS]
GREEK HISTORY IN OUTLINE
A PRELIMINARY SURVEY, COMPRISING A CURSORY VIEW OF THE SWEEP OF EVENTS
AND A TABLE OF CHRONOLOGY
It is unnecessary in the summary of a country whose chief events are so
accurately dated and so fully understood as in the case of Greece, to
amplify the chronology. A synoptical view of these events will, however,
prove useful. Questions of origins and of earliest history are obscure
here as elsewhere. As to the earliest dates, it may be well to quote the
dictum of Prof. Flinders Petrie, who, after commenting on the discovery
in Greece, of pottery marked with the names of early Egyptian kings,
states that “the grand age of prehistoric Greece, which can well compare
with the art of classical Greece, began about 1600 B.C., was at its
highest point about 1400 B.C. and became decadent about 1200 B.C., before
its overthrow by the Dorian invasion.” The earlier phase of civilisation
in the Ægean may therefore date from the third millennium B.C.
2000-1000. Later phase of civilisation in the Ægean (the Mycenæan Age).
The Achæans and other Greeks spread themselves over Greece. Ionians
settle in Asia Minor. The Pelopidæ reign at Mycenæ. =Agamemnon=, king
of Mycenæ, commands the Greek forces at Troy. 1184. Fall of Troy
(traditional date). 1124. First migration. Northern warriors drive out
the population of Thessaly and occupy the country, causing many Achæans
to migrate to the Peloponnesus. 1104. Dorian invasion. The Peloponnesus
gradually brought under the Dorian sway. Dorian colonies sent out to
Crete, Rhodes, and Asia Minor. Argos head of a Dorian hexapolis. 885.
=Lycurgus= said to have given laws to Sparta. About this time (perhaps
much earlier) Phœnician alphabet imported into Greece. 776. The first
Olympic year. 750. First Messenian war.
PERIOD OF GREEK COLONISATION (750-550 B.C.)
683. Athens ruled by nine archons. 632. Attempt of Cylon to make himself
supreme at Athens. 621. Draconian code drawn up. 611. Anaximander of
Miletus, the constructor of the first map, born. End of seventh century.
Second Messenian war. Spartans conquer the country. The Ephors win almost
all the kingly power. =Cypselus= and his son =Periander= tyrants of
Corinth. 600. The poets Alcæus and Sappho flourish at Lesbos. 594-593.
=Solon= archon at Athens. 590-589. Sacred war of the Amphictyonic
league against Crissa. =Clisthenes= tyrant of Sicyon. 585. Pythian
games reorganised. Date of first Pythiad. 570. =Pisistratus= polemarch
at Athens. Athenians conquer Salamis and Nisæa. 561. Pisistratus makes
himself supreme in Athens. He is twice exiled. 559-556. =Miltiades=
tyrant of the Thracian Chersonesus. 556. Chilon’s reforms in Sparta.
549-548. Mycenæ and Tiryns go over to Sparta.
ATHENS UNDER THE TYRANTS (540-510 B.C.)
540. Pisistratus tyrant of Athens. 530. Pythagoras goes to Croton.
527. Pisistratus dies and is succeeded by his sons, =Hippias= and
=Hipparchus=. Homeric poems collected. 514. Hipparchus slain by Harmodius
and Aristogiton. 510. A Spartan army under Cleomenes blockades Hippias
and forces him to quit Athens.
THE ATHENIAN DEMOCRACY
Clisthenes and Isagoras contend for the chief power in Athens. 507.
Isagoras calls in =Cleomenes= who invades Attica. The Athenians overcome
the Spartans, and Clisthenes, who had left Athens, returns. =Clisthenes=
reforms the Athenian democracy. 506. Spartans, Bœotians, and Chalcidians
allied against Athens. The Athenians allied with Platæa. Chalcidian
territory annexed by Athens. Nearly the whole Peloponnesus forms a
league under the hegemony of Sparta. Rivalry between Athens and Ægina.
504. The Athenians refuse to restore Hippias on the Persian demand. 498.
Athens and Eretria send ships to aid the Milesians against the Persians.
496. Sophocles born at Athens. 494. Naval battle off Lade, the decisive
struggle of the Ionian war, won by the Persians. Battle of Sepeia. The
Spartans defeat the Argives. 493. =Themistocles=, archon at Athens,
fortifies the Piræus.
PERIOD OF THE PERSIAN WARS (492-479 B.C.)
492. Quarrel between the Spartan kings. King =Demaratus= flees to the
Persian court, and King Cleomenes seizes hostages from Ægina. Thrace
and Macedonia subdued by the Persians. 490. The Persians subdue Naxos
and other islands, and destroy Eretria before landing in Attica. Battle
of Marathon; the Greeks under Miltiades defeat the Persians, the latter
losing six thousand men; the Persian fleet sets sail for Asia. 489.
Miltiades’ expedition against Paros. Miltiades tried, and fined. His
death. 487. War between Athens and Ægina. Themistocles begins to equip an
Athenian fleet. 483. Aristides ostracised. 481. Xerxes musters an army to
invade Greece. Greek congress at Corinth. 480. Xerxes at the Hellespont.
The northern Greeks submit to Xerxes. The Greek army is defeated at the
pass of Thermopylæ and =Leonidas=, the Spartan king, is slain. Battle
of Artemisium. The Greek fleet retreats. Athens being evacuated, Xerxes
occupies it. Battle of Salamis and complete victory of the Greeks.
Retreat of Xerxes. The Greeks fail to follow up their victory. 479.
Mardonius invades Bœotia; occupies Athens. Retreat of Mardonius. Battle
of Platæa. Mardonius defeated and slain. Retreat of the Persian army.
Battle of Mycale and defeat of the Persian fleet.
POST-BELLUM RECONSTRUCTION (479-463 B.C.)
478. Athenians under Xanthippus capture Sestus in the Chersonesus.
Confederacy of Delos. 477. Athenian walls rebuilt. Piræus fortified.
Themistocles’ law providing for the annual increase of the navy.
Pausanias conquers Byzantium. He enters into treacherous relations
with the Persians. 476. The Spartans endeavour to reorganise the
Amphictyonic league. Their attempts defeated by Themistocles. 474. The
poet Pindar flourishes. 473. Scyros conquered by the Athenian, Cimon.
Argos defeated by the Spartans at the battle of Tegea. 472. Themistocles
ostracised. _Persæ_ of Æschylus performed. 471. The Arcadian league
against Sparta crushed at the battle of Dipæa. 470-469. Naxos secedes
from the confederacy of Delos, and is compelled to return. 470. Socrates
born. 468. Cimon defeats the Persians at the Eurymedon. Argos recovers
Tiryns. 465-463. Thasos revolts and is reduced by the fleet under Cimon.
464. Sparta stirred by terrible earthquake and a revolt of the helots.
The Third Messenian war. 463-462. Cimon persuades Athens to send help
to the Spartans, but the latter refuse the assistance. They are afraid
of Athens’ revolutionary spirit. This incident puts an end to Cimon’s
Laconian policy. It is the triumph of Ephialtes and his party.
THE AGE OF PERICLES (463-431 B.C.)
463-461. Triumph of democracy at Athens under Ephialtes and Pericles.
The Areopagus deprived of its powers. Cimon protests against the changes
effected in his absence. He is ostracised, and Athens forms a connection
with Argos, which captures and destroys Mycenæ. 460-459. Megara secedes
from the Peloponnesian league to Athens. A fleet, sent by Athens to
aid the Egyptian revolt against Persia, captures Memphis. 459. Ithome
captured by the Spartans. 459-458. Athens at war with the northern states
of the Peloponnesus. Athenian victories of Halieis, Cecryphalea, and
Ægina. 458. Long walls of Athens completed. 457. Spartan expedition to
Bœotia. Victory of Tanagra over the Athenians. Truce between Athens and
Sparta. Battle of Œnophyta and conquest of Bœotia by the Athenians. The
Phocians and Locrians make alliance with Athens. 456. Ægina surrenders
to the Athenians. 454. Greek contingent in Egypt capitulates to the
Persians; the Athenian fleet destroyed at the mouth of the Nile. 454-453.
Treasury of the confederacy of Delos transferred from the island to
Athens. 453. Pericles besieges Sicyon and Œniadæ without success. Achaia
passes under the Athenian dominion. 452-451. Five years’ truce between
Athens and the Peloponnesus. 450-449. Cimon leads an expedition against
Cyprus. Death of Cimon. The fleet on its way home wins the battle of
Salamis in Cyprus. 448. Peace of Callias
|
we passed near the Sir-e-chusm or "fountain head," one of
the sources of the Cabul river; it is a large pool stocked with a
multitude of enormous fish that are held sacred by the few inhabitants
of the adjoining hamlets, and which are daily fed by an aged fanatic,
who for many years has devoted himself to their protection. As it
would be deemed in the highest degree sacrilegious to eat any of these
monsters, they are never molested, and are so tame as to come readily
to the hand when offered food. Of course, my necessary compliance with
the prejudices of the guardian of the fish prevented the exercise of
my Waltonian propensities.
A little further on is a remarkable bourj or _watch-tower_ isolated on
a projecting rock, and supposed to have been built for the purpose of
giving the chiefs of the little plain below, when at variance with the
neighbouring mountaineers, notice of the approaching invader. At this
point the valley is extremely narrow, being almost choked up with huge
masses of rock hurled by the violence of some convulsion of nature
from the sides of the impending precipices.
There are several minor forts in the vicinity of Suffaed Kulla, which
is the largest, and is at present occupied by a Kuzzilbash chief,
who took advantage a few years ago of the temporary absence of its
rightful owner, and acting upon the principle of "might makes right,"
possessed himself forcibly of it, and has held it ever since. He
treated us with great kindness and attention, sending us most
acceptable presents of fruit, with food for our followers and cattle.
We here experienced to a great degree that remarkable daily variation
of temperature so peculiar to these regions: in the gully the wind was
bleak and cold, but when encamped under the shelter of the fort the
heat from the sun's rays reflected from the smooth surface of the bare
rock was so intense that the thermometer rose to 100 of Fahrenheit.
While in camp at Cabul I frequently experienced the same rapid change,
for it would sometimes be a hard frost at day-break and an Indian
summer heat at mid-day.
On the 19th of June we started very early, as the tremendous Oonnye
pass rising to the height of 11,400 feet lay before us, and we had a
full ten miles march ere we could reach our proposed halting place at
the village of Uart. We soon entered the mouth of the pass, which was
girt on either side by magnificent precipices; the road was narrow and
slippery--of course without even an apology for a parapet--running
along a natural ledge on the verge of a perpendicular cliff, and so
_sheer_ was the side, that from a horse's back you might
sometimes have dropped a stone into the apparently bottomless
ravine--bottomless, for the rays of a noon-day sun have never broken
the eternal darkness of the awful chasm beneath. Had horse, camel,
or man missed their footing whilst scrambling up the steep and stony
pathway, nothing could have saved them from being dashed to pieces.
Frequently, when rounding some projecting crag, the small treasure-box
fastened on the camel literally overhung the abyss, and I held my
breath and the pulsations of my heart increased as I watched horse
after horse and camel after camel weather the critical point.
Before we reached Uart a poor woman of the Huzareh tribe (the most
persecuted and enslaved throughout these regions) came and complained
to us that her child had been seized by a band of plunderers, as she
supposed, to be sold into slavery. Sturt immediately despatched a
couple of the guard to recover her child if possible, and the poor
woman went off with the two soldiers in the full confidence that her
escort would be successful. I own that I myself was not so sanguine,
but I had yet to learn how much even in these wild mountains the
British name was respected. The mother's hopes were realized, and in
the course of the day the child was recovered, having been instantly
surrendered on the requisition being made; but I was surprised to see
instead of a helpless child a fine handsome well-knit young man. The
gratitude of the poor woman was sincere; she had nothing, she said, to
offer in return, but prayed that every blessing might descend upon us
and our most distant relations; that we might all become great kings;
and that finally we might be successful in conquering the country we
were proceeding to invade: vain were our endeavours to set before her
in their true light the object of our expedition.
We arrived rather late at Uart after a hard day's work, and were not
much gratified by the aspect of our camp, which was disagreeable, from
its great elevation and its situation on a bleak table-land, thinly
covered with a short grass, with the strong winds of the Hindoo Khoosh
sweeping across it.
Here a young woman came to our tent asking permission to avail
herself of our protection, as she was proceeding to the frontiers
of Toorkisth[=a]n to purchase slave girls for the Cabul market. She
accompanied us to Bamee[=a]n, and there remained. I heard afterwards
that she did not succeed according to her anticipations, and that on
her return to Cabul she died of fever. Our English ideas of slavery
drawn from our knowledge of the varied sufferings endured by the
thousands who are annually exported from the western shores of Africa,
are opposite to those entertained in the east even by the victims
themselves. The Asiatic and African slave are alike in name alone; the
treatment of the latter in those parts of America where, spite of the
progress of civilization and the advancement of true principles
of philanthropy over the world, slavery is still tolerated and
encouraged, has been too well and too often described for me to
venture a word of my own opinion, but in Asia, in many cases, the loss
of liberty is hardly felt.
The situation of the domestic slave of Egypt (though, strictly
speaking, he must be classed under the head of "African") is analogous
to that observable generally in the east; and I form my opinion partly
from an anecdote related to me by my friend Captain Westmacott, of the
37th Native Infantry, who was killed in the retreat from Cabul, which
I will venture to repeat as an illustration. He was proceeding by the
overland route from England to India, and remained some time in Egypt
to view its splendid antiquities. On making inquiries with the object
of procuring servants, he was informed that he had better purchase
slaves. The civilized notions of my friend revolted at the idea, but
he was assured that it was a method very generally adopted, as he
would find it extremely difficult to hire servants, and if successful,
they would prove the veriest rascals on the face of the earth. He
reluctantly consented, and had them purchased. On his departure for
India he summoned his slaves, and informed them that as they had
behaved themselves well he would give them their freedom. They looked
astounded and burst into tears, reminding him that instead of being
kind to them he had shewn cruelty, "for where," said they, "shall we
go now? Who will have anything to say to us? We shall starve and die;
but if your highness will sell us again, we shall be well fed and
clothed." I confess I do not see why the servants, if they really were
so anxious to return to slavery, should not have sold themselves, and
pocketed their own value. Throughout Afghanist[=a]n a slave is treated
as an humble friend, and is generally found to be faithful and
trustworthy.
CHAPTER IV.
After surmounting the Oonnye Pass, which is one of the principal
defiles of the Hindoo Khoosh, we proceeded on the 20th to
Gurdundew[=a]l, a distance from Uart of about six and a half miles.
The road was a gradual descent, and very rugged, leading along the
bases of barren rocks, till we debouched upon the river Elbon, as
it is termed by the natives, but the Helmund or Etymander of the
ancients. Even here, where the stream was in its infancy, the current
was so strong, that while we were fording it, one of our baggage
ponies laden with a tent was carried away by its violence, and, but
for the gallant exertions of our tent-pitcher, we should have had to
sleep in the open air for the rest of our journey; as it fortunately
happened, both animal and load were recovered; and when properly
dried, neither one nor the other were a bit the worse for their
washing. On the 21st we encamped near the village of Kazee, after a
march of nine miles along the right bank of the Helmund, which here
flows in a south-westerly direction; we could procure no supplies
whatever, either for man or beast, which was the more vexatious as
we had a very hard day's work in prospect for the morrow, and were
anxious to recruit ourselves and cattle before attempting it. We
managed well enough in spite of our compulsory fast, and on the 22d we
reached Kalloo, a distance of twelve miles, after crossing the steep
and difficult pass of Hadjekuk, 12,400 feet high; as we approached
the summit we found ourselves amongst the snow, and experienced some
little inconvenience from a difficulty of respiration; though this
pass was even higher than that of Oonnye, it does not possess the
same abruptness and boldness of feature which render the latter so
interesting and dangerous. The hills near the gorge were so strongly
impregnated with iron as sensibly to affect the needle of the
theodolite.
Throughout this country, and especially amongst the Uzbegs, there is a
fortified wall in the form of a square surrounding each village, with
small bastions or towers at the angles. Plunder is so much the order
of the day, or rather of the night, that, as a protection, the cattle
and every living animal are shut up in these places at sunset; the
wicket is locked and barred, and if the villagers happen to have a
feud with any of their neighbours, which generally is the case, a
watchman is stationed on each bastion. Truly of this land it may be
said, that "what one sows another reaps," for frequently a chief
forming a "chuppäo" or plundering party against his neighbour, if
unsuccessful in seizing men to sell for slaves or cattle for use,
reaps and carries off the corn. These chuppäos are considered among
the predatory tribes very exciting affairs, as affording opportunities
for the young warriors to flesh their maiden swords; but it seldom
happens that these encounters are very bloody, as, in the event of one
party shewing a determined front, the other generally retreats. The
unfortunate Huzareh tribe are constantly the sufferers, and the
traveller will recognize more slaves of that than of any other "clan."
We were now in the vicinity of the Koh-i-baba, a mountain whose
granite peaks still towered six thousand feet above us, though our
own camp was at least nine thousand above the level of the sea. We
determined upon ascending it the following morning, but at first
experienced considerable difficulty in procuring guides, not from the
natives being either unqualified or unwilling to undertake the task,
for they were chiefly hunters, and familiar with the paths they had
themselves formed in pursuit of game, but they could not conceive why
_we_ should be anxious to climb the difficult height, and therefore
were obstinately stupid in refusing to understand the purpose for
which we required their services. At length we obtained a guide, and
started next morning at half-past five: with considerable fatigue and
some little risk we reached the summit after three hours walking, but
the magnificent view amply rewarded us for our trouble. The peaks
about us were capped with eternal snow; those below were rugged and
black. The comparison of the view from the top of a lofty mountain in
a hilly country with that of the sea in a storm is old perhaps, but
only the truer for that very reason. It was, indeed, as if the hand
of God had suddenly arrested and turned to stone varied and fantastic
forms of the dark tumultuous waves.
The solemn stillness of these lofty regions was a striking contrast
with the busy plains below. The mountains abound in wild sheep, which
the hardy hunter pursues for days together, taking with him a slender
stock of food, and wrapping his blanket about him at night, when he
seeks his resting-place amongst the crevices of these barren rocks. It
is seldom that he returns empty-handed if he takes up a good position
over-night, for the flocks of wild sheep descend from the least
accessible parts at the earliest dawn in search of pasture, and one
generally falls a victim to the unerring bullet of the rested
Juzzyl. The distant view of the barrier range was beautiful beyond
description, for, though the peak on which we stood was the highest
for many miles around us, the lofty peaks of the Indian Caucasus were
many thousand feet above us. We were now beyond the range of the wild
sheep, and not a living creature was to be seen save a majestic eagle,
who, deeming _us_ intruders where he was lord of all, sailed up along
the sides of the precipitous ravines, sweeping about our heads as he
soared upwards, then again wheeling downwards near and nearer, till at
length I fancied him within range; but so deceptive was the distance
or so defective my aim that he continued unruffled in his course,
whilst the sharp crack of the rifle echoed and re-echoed from crag to
crag. After satiating our gaze with these wild splendours of creation,
a most unsentimental craving of the inward man warned us to descend,
and we returned to Kalloo by eleven o'clock to do ample justice to our
breakfasts.
We left Kalloo on the 24th, ascending by a rugged broken track to the
highest point of the pass, where we came upon a fort surrounded by a
small belt of cultivation divided into fields by hedgerows abounding
with wild roses. I could hardly have imagined the road practicable for
camels, but the cautious though unwieldy animals eventually succeeded
in surmounting all difficulties, and arrived late at our encampment
near a village called Topechee, the whole distance being ten miles and
a half. From the crest of the pass to Topechee was a gradual descent,
the road bordering a tremendous fissure, deep and gloomy, along the
bottom of which a pelting torrent forced its way. The variegated
strata on the mountain side, forming distinct lines of red, yellow,
blue, and brown, were very remarkable, and I much regret that I had
not time to devote to them most strict examination in a geological
point of view.
On the 25th we started for Bamee[=a]n, passing by another Topechee a
few miles further on, which is famous for its trout stream. Very few
of these fish are found in the country, and only in the streams within
a few miles of this spot. They are red-spotted and well-flavoured,
and, as the natives do not indulge in the angler's art, they will rise
at any kind of fly and gorge any bait offered. While halting a few
minutes at lower Topechee we fell in with an Uzbeg warrior, a most
formidable looking personage, armed, in addition to the usual weapons
of his country, with a huge bell-mouthed blunderbuss at least three
inches in diameter; the individual himself was peaceably enough
disposed, and, contrary to the usual habit of Asiatics, made no
objections to our examining the small cannon he carried. On inspecting
the deadly instrument we discovered it to be loaded to the very
muzzle, a mixture of pebbles, slugs, and bits of iron being crammed
into the barrel over a charge of a couple of ounces of powder. On our
inquiring why it was so heavily charged, the man told us with much
naiveté, that it was to kill _nine_ men, illustrating the method by
which this wholesale destruction was to be accomplished, by planting
the butt on his hip and whirling the muzzle from right to left in a
horizontal direction across us all, and telling us very pleasantly
that if he were to fire we should all fall from the scattering of the
different ingredients contained in the blunderbuss; had we not an
instant before drawn the charge from which the fellow anticipated such
dire effects, we might have felt rather uncomfortable at our relative
positions; but I doubt whether the owner had ever had occasion to try
the efficacy of his boasted manoeuvre, as he would probably at the
first discharge have been killed himself either by the recoil or the
bursting of the defective and honey-combed barrel.
The approach to Bamee[=a]n was very singular; the whole face of the
hills on either hand was burrowed all over with caves like a huge
rabbit-warren. I am informed that these caves are the work of nature,
"yet worked, as it were planned," and are occupied occasionally by
travellers both in summer and winter; they are observable in many
places in Toorkisth[=a]n, and, when situated high up on the face of
the hill, afford a safe retreat for the hunter. The road was tolerably
good for the last three miles, running along a narrow valley sprinkled
with numerous forts, which are generally occupied by the Huzareh
tribes, an ill-featured but athletic race.
I shall not detain the reader by any description either of the
wonderful ruins of the ancient city of Goolgoolla or of the gigantic
images of Bamee[=a]n, these curiosities having been ably described in
Masson's very interesting work; but I was a good deal amused by the
various legends with which the natives are familiar, of one of which,
relating to a chalybeate spring in the neighbourhood called the
"Dragon's Mouth," I shall take the liberty to offer a free version. It
was related to me by an old gentleman who brought a few coins to sell,
and I listened to him with some patience; but in proportion as the old
fellow observed my passive attention did he increase in verbosity and
pompous description. I still waited for the _point_ of the story, but
my friend, after exhausting his powers of speech and metaphor, was
fain to wind up his tale with a most lame and impotent conclusion.
I now give it to the reader, not from a wish to punish him as I
was punished, but because from the prolixity of the narrator he
necessarily most minutely described scenes and customs, which, though
they had nothing on earth to do with the "Dragon's Mouth," may prove
interesting to the reader, as illustrating the peculiarities of the
people amongst whom we were now sojourning.
CHAPTER V.
"A TALE OF THE DRAGON'S MOUTH."
In the reign of Ameer Dost Mahommed Kh[=a]n, when all the pomp and
pride of glorious war was in its zenith at C[=a]bul, there lived on
the borders of Kulloom and Kundooz, a chieftain named Khan Shereef,
whose grandfather had accompanied the illustrious Nadir Shah from
Persia in his expedition through Affghanist[=a]n, and followed the
fortunes of his royal master, even to the very gates of the imperial
Delhi. On his return towards Persia, he had for a time intended to
settle in C[=a]bul, but "death, who assaults the walled fort of the
chieftain as well as the defenceless hovel of the peasant," seized him
for his own; the father also paid the debt of nature in the capital of
Affghanist[=a]n, but not before the young Khan Shereef had seen the
light. Growing up to manhood and wearying of the monotonous life a
residence in C[=a]bul entailed, he pursued his way across the frontier
mountains of Toorkisth[=a]n, and arrived at the court of Meer Moorad
Beg. Here he performed good service in the field, and becoming his
master's personal friend and favourite, had a fort and a small portion
of territory assigned to him. It was at the court of the Kundooz
ruler that he first became acquainted with Zebah, the lovely rose
of Cashmere, whom he eventually purchased from her father for
his wife.[*] He started with his bride to take possession of his
newly-acquired gift, an insulated fortress in the heart of a country
abounding in those extensive prairies for which Toorkisth[=a]n is
so justly celebrated. On these magnificent savannahs he reared the
Toorkman steed, and soon boasted an unrivalled stud.
[* Note: It is customary in this country as well as in other parts
of Asia to purchase the young women who may be selected for wives of
their relations, the purchase money varying according to the degrees
of beauty.] Towards the close of the first year he became a father, an
event which was hailed with extravagant joy by all his vassals, the
old retainers of his father foretelling the future achievements in the
foray of the young Abdoollah Reheem.
A few months had scarcely elapsed, when the anxious mother spied an
old crone moving about in the court-yard; their eyes happening to
meet, Zebah screamed and fell into a swoon. The young heir was
instantly hurried away, but not before the old hag had cast a
withering glance on the boy's beautiful face; every one was now fully
convinced that he had been struck by the "evil eye," which was but too
clearly proved by the event, for from that day he sickened and pined
away till reduced to a mere skeleton.
Large sums of money were expended by the fond parents in the endeavour
to discover a charm to counteract the effects of the "evil eye," till
at length in an auspicious moment it was proposed the boy should try
the efficacy of the celebrated water of the "Dragon's Mouth," which is
situated at the head of the enchanting vale of Bamee[=a]n, just beyond
the western limits of Toorkisth[=a]n. The slave girl who proposed this
scheme related numerous and wonderful cures effected by the magic
waters, and enumerated many hundred individuals, the lame, the blind,
the infirm, the rheumatic, and those afflicted with _bad temper_, who
had been perfectly cured by either drinking of the water or being
immersed in the fountain itself. She would not be positive which
mode was the best, but certain she was that the cure was perfect and
permanent; she herself had been ugly and cross-tempered, and now she
left her audience to judge of her character and appearance. This last
proof at once determined the mother to adopt a plan, which after so
many unsuccessful attempts she could not but consider as her last
resource.
Khan Shereef was not quite so credulous, but what chance has a man
alone against his united harem! He was so far influenced by the
earnest entreaties of his disconsolate wife, that it was determined
in three days he should with a strong cavalcade accompany his darling
invalid to the charmed waters of Bamee[=a]n. The Toorkm[=a]n warriors
were too religious to doubt the fortunate results of the experiment,
and accordingly for the few days which elapsed previous to the setting
forth of the expedition the fort was a scene of active preparation.
Armour was burnished, swords brightened and fresh ground, juzzyls
cleaned and matches got ready, so that they might produce as imposing
an effect as possible, not only on the presiding spirit of the
fountain, and the very questionable friends through whose territories
they were about to pass, but also that they might do due honour to
their lord and master.
But before proceeding with my history, I must not omit a more minute
description of Khan Shereefs fort. I have already described its
locality on the borders of Toorkisth[=a]n. It was situated at the base
of a low conical hill, on the summit of which a look-out tower had
been erected; this building was in troublesome times occupied by a
party of Juzzylchees, who took their station in it, and, fixing their
cumbrous pieces on the parapet, watched the approach of any hostile
party, and from their commanding and protected position would be
enabled to keep in check an enemy attempting to ascend the opposite
side of the hill. As the nearest stream of water was full two miles
from the fort, the present owner, being a man full of science and
mathematical knowledge, had with unparalleled ingenuity sunk a deep
and substantial well inside his walls, thus rendering his position
infinitely more tenable than if his water-carriers had been daily
obliged, as is the case in most places, to run the gauntlet of
the enemy's fire whilst procuring the requisite supply of that
indispensable article.
The fort itself was an oblong square, and required three hundred men
to man its walls; it was built of mud, with a large bastion at each
angle three and four stories high, and loopholed. It had but one gate,
on which the nature of the defences afforded means for concentrating a
heavy fire. Immediately facing the gate, and detached from buildings
of inferior importance, was the Khan's own residence, and some low
flat-roofed houses lining the inside of the whole extent of walls,
which afforded a secure shelter to the vassals. The audience-chamber
or public sitting-room was so situated that the Kh[=a]n could survey
the whole of the interior of his fort whilst squatting on his
Persian carpet or reclining on the large soft pillow, which is an
indispensable luxury for a grandee of the rank and importance of
Kh[=a]n Shereef.
The sides of the apartment consisted of a lattice-work of wood
reaching nearly to the ceiling, and connecting the mud pillars which
supported the roof; the framework was richly carved, and on slides, so
as to enable the owner to increase or diminish the quantity of light
and air at his pleasure.
Between the Kh[=a]n's dwelling and the gate was the mosque, whose
minarets towered above the walls and bastions of the fort,--its dome
was beautifully proportioned, and inlaid with agate, jasper, and
carnelian, besides being wonderfully painted with representations of
strange animals unknown to the common people, but which the Moollah
affirmed were all taken from the life.
At this time the base of the mosque was occupied by a party of men
smoking and passing the Kalee[=a]n to each other; amongst them was
one, evidently superior to the rest in age and wisdom, for his opinion
was frequently appealed to by all and listened to with much deference.
When not called upon to interfere he sat quiet and reserved, and
to judge by his countenance was in a melancholy mood. His name was
Rhejjub;--he was the oldest retainer of the family, and to him in all
cases of emergency did the Kh[=a]n apply for advice, which had never
been given without due deliberation and almost prophetic foresight. He
had only that morning been deputed to remain and guard the fort during
the absence of his master, and although he knew it to be a post of
honor and trust, yet he could not but consider it an effeminate duty
to be left guardian of the Koch-khanah or _family_, and superintendent
of the _un_chosen of the band. With him, "to hear was to obey," still
he envied those who had been selected to accompany their lord. Old
Rhejjub had been a great traveller in his day; had wandered over many
portions of Arabia, and visited the holy city of Mecca; thus gaining
the valuable privileges of a Suyud or _holy man_, which title alone
was a passport and safeguard amongst even the lawless Ghilgyes and
Khyberr[=e]es of Affghanist[=a]n, it being a greater crime for a man
to kill a Suyud than even his own father. Thus, whenever a Chuppao or
other warlike expedition was in contemplation, Rhejjub was invariably
despatched to reconnoitre and obtain information, and being a man of a
shrewd turn of mind, and calculating all chances during his homeward
journey, was always prepared after detailing his news to give a sound
opinion as to the best plan to be pursued.
At early dawn of the proposed day of departure the whole party were
summoned by the Muezzin's call to offer up prayers for their safe
arrival at the "Dragon's Mouth," for the effectual cure of the young
Abdoollah, and his happy return to his fond mother. Before mounting,
was performed the ceremony of taking from its resting place the famous
sword given to the Kh[=a]n's grandfather by Nadir Shah himself.
The blade was of Damascus steel, and valued alone at one hundred
tomauns;[*] the ivory handle was ornamented with precious stones,
and the pommel was one large emerald of great beauty and value. The
scabbard was of shagreen finely embroidered in gold. This precious
weapon the Suyud had the enviable office of presenting to his chief
unsheathed, whilst the aged Moollah who stood by read aloud the inlaid
Arabic inscription on the blade, "May this always prove as true a
friend to thee as it has been to the donor." The Kh[=a]n received the
valued heir-loom with all due respect, and kissing the weapon sheathed
and fixed it firmly to his belt.
[* Note: Tomaun, twenty rupees or about £2.]
All necessary preparations for the departure being now completed, the
camel destined for the accommodation of the invalid was brought to the
door of the palace, conducted by a favourite Arab who had for many
years filled the office of head Surwan or _camel-driver_. The colour
of the animal was almost white, and the large gold embroidered
housings swept the ground; on either side was fixed a wicker-basket
lined and covered with red cloth, and furnished with soft cushions;
one of these held the young Kh[=a]n, whilst the other was occupied by
the nurse who was the original promoter of the expedition. At length
the word to march was given, and the escort consisting of sixty
horsemen galloped forth. Khan Shereef himself was clad in a coat
of mail, and wore a circular steel head-piece, in which were three
receptacles for as many heron plumes; a light matchlock, the barrel of
which, inlaid with gold, was slung across his shoulder; attached to
his sword-belt were the usual priming and loading powder-flasks made
of buffalo's hide, with tobacco-pouch and bullet-holder of Russia
leather worked with gold thread; and the equipment was completed by
the Affgh[=a]n boots drawn up over the loose trousers reaching to the
knee, with sharp-pointed heels serving for spurs.
The procession moved on, the escort forming an advance and rear-guard,
the chief galloping sometimes in front of the party, and now walking
his Toorkm[=a]n steed alongside the richly caparisoned camel with its
precious burthen.
Occasionally a horseman would dash out from the ranks in chace of
a wild goat or sheep crossing the little frequented road, or,
dismounting and giving his horse in charge of a comrade, would make
a detour on foot in the hope of getting a shot at a chichore.[*] The
tedious hours of march were thus wiled away till they reached the
"Dundun Shikkun Kotul" or _tooth-breaking_ pass, when the horsemen
assumed a more steady demeanour. They were now within forty miles of
the celebrated spring, which they hoped to reach on the following day.
[* Note: This is a species of partridge very abundant throughout
Toorkistan.]
The Dragon's Mouth is situated four or five miles to the north-west
of Bamee[=a]n, high up in the mountains in the direction of the
Yookaoolung country. After a toilsome and somewhat perilous ascent
the traveller finds himself at the edge of a deep ravine--or rather
fissure in the rock, for the width at the top is seldom more than
twelve feet--the sides presenting a ferruginous appearance, with tints
varying from extremely dark to lighter shades, by reason of the soil
being so strongly impregnated with ore. The low gurgling of the
wonder-working stream might be heard issuing from the depths of the
dark abysm.
Below, and at the only point of feasible approach for the
disease-stricken, is a large cave, where the water bubbles up warm,
and forming innumerable small whirlpools before it breaks again into a
stream, and mingles its waters with those of a torrent below.
Here, at the base of a large fragment of rock, almost entirely covered
with Arabic inscriptions and quotations from the Kor[=a]n alluding to
the healing powers of the well and the mercy of God, Khan Shereef and
his now dismounted followers offered up prayers for success. Suddenly
a huge mass of rock detaching itself from the mountain side thundered
down the steep; it was hailed by all as a good omen, and the Moollah
declaring that "now or never" was the auspicious moment, the child was
taken from the arms of the now trembling nurse and immersed in the
turbid waters. Hope elevated the breasts of the father and of the
attendants, nor was that feeling fallacious, for on the following
morning the invalid was pronounced decidedly better, and was again
taken to the cavern, and again, with sanguine prayers and invocations,
dipped into the pool.
Khan Shereef, feeling assured that he could now do no more, and
trusting to the goodness of Providence, ordered a retrograde movement,
and in a few days arrived at his castle with the infant nearly
restored to health. A few years after the young Abdoollah was a
healthy active boy, indulging in the sports of the field, and
anxiously awaiting the time when he should be of sufficient age to
join in the more exciting scenes of the chuppao. The old nurse, the
proposer of the successful scheme, was highly honoured, and became
chief attendant in the seraglio, which office she holds to this day.
"And now," concluded the old gentleman, "if my lord will choose to
purchase these beautiful coins, he shall have them for whatever price
his generosity may think fit to put upon them."
CHAPTER VI.
The force stationed at Bamee[=a]n consisted, at the time we were
there, of a troop of native horse artillery and a regiment of Goorkahs
in the service of Shah Seujah.
On our arrival, Dr. Lord, the political agent, sent us a polite note
of invitation to pitch our tents near his fort, and (we) become his
guests during our stay; we remained with him till the 29th, and were
much gratified by his kind attention.
The quiet demeanour of the natives here was very remarkable, and as
we can hardly attribute the circumstance to an inherent pacific
disposition, we must the more appreciate the wonderful address
displayed by the political agent in his dealings with the various
parties, who in these remote mountains, as well as in more civilised
countries, are ever ready to quarrel with each other, and only suspend
their animosity when a common powerful enemy is to be resisted or a
helpless stranger to be plundered. As it was, we reaped considerable
benefit from the favourable impression made on the peasants by the
authorities, for we were enabled to go out shooting, alone, and even
wander unarmed amongst the hills without experiencing the slightest
insult or incivility.
Indeed, at the period of which I am writing, there seemed to have
been a pause in the wild passions of the Affgh[=a]ns throughout the
country, which was perhaps one of the fatal causes which lulled us
into that dangerous feeling of security, from whence we were awoke by
the most dreadful disaster that has ever befallen the British arms.
Poor Dr. Lord
|
Confiding in the good principles of her protégé, Mrs. Weldon had no
hesitation in entrusting her little son to his especial charge. During
the frequent periods of leisure, when the sea was fair, and the sails
required no shifting, the apprentice was never weary of amusing Jack by
making him familiar with the practice of a sailor's craft; he made him
scramble up the shrouds, perch upon the yards, and slip down the
back-stays; and the mother had no alarm; her assurance of Dick Sands'
ability and watchfulness to protect her boy was so complete that she
could only rejoice in an occupation for him that seemed more than
anything to restore the colour he had lost in his recent illness.
Time passed on without incident; and had it not been for the constant
prevalence of an adverse wind, neither passengers nor crew could have
found the least cause of complaint. The pertinacity, however, with
which the wind kept to the east could not do otherwise than make
Captain Hull somewhat concerned; it absolutely prevented him from
getting his ship into her proper course, and he could not altogether
suppress his misgiving that the calms near the Tropic of Capricorn, and
the equatorial current driving him on westwards, would entail a delay
that might be serious.
[Illustration: Dick and little Jack.]
It was principally on Mrs. Weldon's account that the Captain began to
feel uneasiness, and he made up his mind that if he could hail a vessel
proceeding to America he should advise his passengers to embark on her;
unfortunately, however, he felt that they were still in a latitude far
too much to the south to make it likely that they should sight a
steamer going to Panama; and at that date, communication between
Australia and the New World was much less frequent than it has since
become.
Still, nothing occurred to interrupt the general monotony of the voyage
until the 2nd of February, the date at which our narrative commences.
It was about nine o'clock in the morning of that day that Dick and
little Jack had perched themselves together on the top-mast-yards. The
weather was very clear, and they could see the horizon right round
except the section behind them, hidden by the brigantine-sail on the
main-mast. Below them, the bowsprit seemed to lie along the water with
its stay-sails attached like three unequal wings; from the lads' feet
to the deck was the smooth surface of the fore-mast; and above their
heads nothing but the small top-sail and the top-mast. The schooner was
running on the larboard tack as close to the wind as possible.
Dick Sand was pointing out to Jack how well the ship was ballasted, and
was trying to explain how it was impossible for her to capsize, however
much she heeled to starboard, when suddenly the little fellow cried
out,--
"I can see something in the water!"
"Where? what?" exclaimed Dick, clambering to his feet upon the yard.
"There!" said the child, directing attention to the portion of the
sea-surface that was visible between the stay-sails.
Dick fixed his gaze intently for a moment, and then shouted out
lustily,--
"Look out in front, to starboard! There is something afloat. To
windward, look out!"
CHAPTER III.
A RESCUE.
At the sound of Dick's voice all the crew, in a moment, were upon the
alert. The men who were not on watch rushed to the deck, and Captain
Hull hurried from his cabin to the bows. Mrs. Weldon, Nan, and even
Cousin Benedict leaned over the starboard taffrails, eager to get a
glimpse of what had thus suddenly attracted the attention of the young
apprentice. With his usual indifference, Negoro did not leave his
cabin, and was the only person on board who did not share the general
excitement.
Speculations were soon rife as to what could be the nature of the
floating object which could be discerned about three miles ahead.
Suggestions of various character were freely made. One of the sailors
declared that it looked to him only like an abandoned raft, but Mrs.
Weldon observed quickly that if it were a raft it might be carrying
some unfortunate shipwrecked men who must be rescued if possible.
Cousin Benedict asserted that it was nothing more nor less than a huge
sea-monster; but the captain soon arrived at the conviction that it was
the hull of a vessel that had heeled over on to its side, an opinion
with which Dick thoroughly coincided, and went so far as to say that he
believed he could make out the copper keel glittering in the sun.
"Luff, Bolton, luff!" shouted Captain Hull to the helmsman; "we will at
any rate lose no time in getting alongside."
"Ay, ay, sir," answered the helmsman, and the "Pilgrim" in an instant
was steered according to orders.
In spite, however, of the convictions of the captain and Dick, Cousin
Benedict would not be moved from his opinion that the object of their
curiosity was some huge cetacean.
"It is certainly dead, then," remarked Mrs. Weldon; "it is perfectly
motionless."
"Oh, that's because it is asleep," said Benedict, who, although he
would have willingly given up all the whales in the ocean for one rare
specimen of an insect, yet could not surrender his own belief.
"Easy, Bolton, easy!" shouted the captain when they were getting nearer
the floating mass; "don't let us be running foul of the thing; no good
could come from knocking a hole in our side; keep out from it a good
cable's length."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the helmsman, in his usual cheery way; and by an
easy turn of the helm the "Pilgrim's" course was slightly modified so
as to avoid all fear of collision.
The excitement of the sailors by this time had become more intense.
Ever since the distance had been less than a mile all doubt had
vanished, and it was certain that what was attracting their attention
was the hull of a capsized ship. They knew well enough the established
rule that a third of all salvage is the right of the finders, and they
were filled with the hope that the hull they were nearing might contain
an undamaged cargo, and be "a good haul," to compensate them for their
ill-success in the last season.
A quarter of an hour later and the "Pilgrim" was within half a mile of
the deserted vessel, facing her starboard side. Water-logged to her
bulwarks, she had heeled over so completely that it would have been
next to impossible to stand upon her deck. Of her masts nothing was to
be seen; a few ends of cordage were all that remained of her shrouds,
and the try-sail chains were hanging all broken. On the starboard flank
was an enormous hole.
"Something or other has run foul of her," said Dick.
"No doubt of that," replied the captain; "the only wonder is that she
did not sink immediately."
"Oh, how I hope the poor crew have been saved!" exclaimed Mrs Weldon.
"Most probably," replied the captain, "they would all have taken to the
boats. It is as likely as not that the ship which did the mischief
would continue its course quite unconcerned."
"Surely, you cannot mean," cried Mrs Weldon, "that any one could be
capable of such inhumanity?"
"Only too probable," answered Captain Hull, "unfortunately, such
instances are very far from rare."
He scanned the drifting ship carefully and continued,--
"No, I cannot see any sign of boats here, I should guess that the crew
have made an attempt to get to land, at such a distance as this,
however, from America or from the islands of the Pacific I should be
afraid that it must be hopeless."
"Is it not possible," asked Mrs Weldon, "that some poor creature may
still survive on board, who can tell what has happened?"
"Hardly likely, madam; otherwise there would have been some sort of a
signal in sight. But it is a matter about which we will make sure."
The captain waved his hand a little in the direction in which he wished
to go, and said quietly,--
"Luff, Bolton, luff a bit!"
The "Pilgrim" by this time was not much more than three cables' lengths
from the ship, there was still no token of her being otherwise than
utterly deserted, when Dick Sands suddenly exclaimed,--
"Hark! if I am not much mistaken, that is a dog barking!"
Every one listened attentively; it was no fancy on Dick's part, sure
enough a stifled barking could be heard, as if some unfortunate dog had
been imprisoned beneath the hatchways; but as the deck was not yet
visible, it was impossible at present to determine the precise truth.
Mrs Weldon pleaded,--
"If it is only a dog, captain, let it be saved."
"Oh, yes, yes, mamma, the dog must be saved!" cried little Jack; "I
will go and get a bit of sugar ready for it."
[Illustration: Negoro had approached without being noticed by any one]
"A bit of sugar, my child, will not be much for a starved dog."
"Then it shall have my soup, and I will do without," said the boy, and
he kept shouting, "Good dog! good dog!" until he persuaded himself that
he heard the animal responding to his call.
The vessels were now scarcely three hundred feet apart; the barking was
more and more distinct, and presently a great dog was seen clinging to
the starboard netting. It barked more desperately than ever.
"Howick," said Captain Hull, calling to the boatswain, "heave to, and
lower the small boat."
The sails were soon trimmed so as to bring the schooner to a standstill
within half a cable's length of the disabled craft, the boat was
lowered, and the captain and Dick, with a couple of sailors, went on
board. The dog kept up a continual yelping; it made the most vigourous
efforts to retain its hold upon the netting, but perpetually slipped
backwards and fell off again upon the inclining deck. It was soon
manifest, however, that all the noise the creature was making was not
directed exclusively towards those who were coming to its rescue, and
Mrs. Weldon could not divest herself of the impression that there must
be some survivors still on board. All at once the animal changed its
gestures. Instead of the crouching attitude and supplicating whine with
which it seemed to be imploring the compassion of those who were
nearing it, it suddenly appeared to become bursting with violence and
furious with rage.
"What ails the brute?" exclaimed Captain Hull.
But already the boat was on the farther side of the wrecked ship, and
the captain was not in a position to see that Negoro the cook had just
come on to the schooner's deck, or that it was obvious that it was
against him that the dog had broken out in such obstreperous fury.
Negoro had approached without being noticed by any one; he made his way
to the forecastle, whence, without a word or look of surprise, he gazed
a moment at the dog, knitted his brow, and, silent and unobserved as he
had come, retired to his kitchen.
As the boat had rounded the stern of the drifting hull, it had been
observed that the one word "Waldeck" was painted on the aft-board, but
that there was no intimation of the port to which the ship belonged. To
Captain Hull's experienced eye, however, certain details of
construction gave a decided confirmation to the probability suggested
by her name that she was of American build.
Of what had once been a fine brig of 500 tons burden this hopeless
wreck was now all that remained. The large hole near the bows indicated
the place where the disastrous shock had occurred, but as, in the
heeling over, this aperture had been carried some five or six feet
above the water, the vessel had escaped the immediate foundering which
must otherwise have ensued; but still it wanted only the rising of a
heavy swell to submerge the ship at any time in a few minutes.
It did not take many more strokes to bring the boat close to the
larboard bulwark, which was half out of the water, and Captain Hull
obtained a view of the whole length of the deck. It was clear from end
to end. Both masts had been snapped off within two feet of their
sockets, and had been swept away with shrouds, stays, and rigging. Not
a single spar was to be seen floating anywhere within sight of the
wreck, a circumstance from which it was to be inferred that several
days at least had elapsed since the catastrophe.
Meantime the dog, sliding down from the taffrail, got to the centre
hatchway, which was open. Here it continued to bark, alternately
directing its eyes above deck and below.
"Look at that dog!" said Dick; "I begin to think there must be somebody
on board."
"If so," answered the captain, "he must have died of hunger; the water
of course has flooded the store-room."
"No," said Dick; "that dog wouldn't look like that if there were nobody
there alive."
[Illustration: The dog began to swim slowly and with manifest weakness
towards the boat.]
Taking the boat as close as was prudent to the wreck, the captain and
Dick called and whistled repeatedly to the dog, which after a while let
itself slip into the sea, and began to swim slowly and with manifest
weakness towards the boat. As soon as it was lifted in, the animal,
instead of devouring the piece of bread that was offered him, made its
way to a bucket containing a few drops of fresh water, and began
eagerly to lap them up.
"The poor wretch is dying of thirst!" said Dick.
It soon appeared that the dog was very far from being engrossed with
its own interests. The boat was being pushed back a few yards in order
to allow the captain to ascertain the most convenient place to get
alongside the "Waldeck," when the creature seized Dick by the jacket,
and set up a howl that was almost human in its piteousness. It was
evidently in a state of alarm that the boat was not going to return to
the wreck. The dog's meaning could not be misunderstood. The boat was
accordingly brought against the larboard side of the vessel, and while
the two sailors lashed her securely to the "Waldeck's" cat-head,
Captain Hull and Dick, with the dog persistently accompanying them,
clambered, after some difficulty, to the open hatchway between the
stumps of the masts, and made their way into the hold. It was half full
of water, but perfectly destitute of cargo, its sole contents being the
ballast sand which had slipped to larboard, and now served to keep the
vessel on her side.
One glance was sufficient to convince the captain that there was no
salvage to be effected.
"There is nothing here; nobody here," he said.
"So I see," said the apprentice, who had made his way to the extreme
fore-part of the hold.
"Then we have only to go up again," remarked the captain.
They ascended the ladder, but no sooner did they reappear upon the deck
than the dog, barking irrepressibly, began trying manifestly to drag
them towards the stern.
Yielding to what might be called the importunities of the dog, they
followed him to the poop, and there, by the dim glimmer admitted by the
sky-light, Captain Hull made out the forms of five bodies, motionless
and apparently lifeless, stretched upon the floor.
One after another, Dick hastily examined them all, and emphatically
declared it to be his opinion, that not one or them had actually ceased
to breathe; whereupon the captain did not lose a minute in summoning
the two sailors to his aid, and although it was far from an easy task,
he succeeded in getting the five unconscious men, who were all negroes,
conveyed safely to the boat.
The dog followed, apparently satisfied.
With all possible speed the boat made its way back again to the
"Pilgrim," a girt-line was lowered from the mainyard, and the
unfortunate men were raised to the deck.
"Poor things!" said Mrs. Weldon, as she looked compassionately on the
motionless forms.
"But they are not dead," cried Dick eagerly; "they are not dead; we
shall save them all yet!"
"What's the matter with them?" asked Cousin Benedict, looking at them
with utter bewilderment.
"We shall hear all about them soon, I dare say," said the captain,
smiling; "but first we will give them a few drops of rum in some water."
Cousin Benedict smiled in return.
"Negoro!" shouted the captain.
At the sound of the name, the dog, who had hitherto been quite passive,
growled fiercely, showed his teeth, and exhibited every sign of rage.
The cook did not answer.
"Negoro!" again the captain shouted, and the dog became yet more angry.
At this second summons Negoro slowly left his kitchen, but no sooner
had he shown his face upon the deck than the animal made a rush at him,
and would unquestionably have seized him by the throat if the man had
not knocked him back with a poker which he had brought with him in his
hand.
The infuriated beast was secured by the sailors, and prevented from
inflicting any serious injury.
"Do you know this dog?" asked the captain.
"Know him? Not I! I have never set eyes on the brute in my life."
"Strange!" muttered Dick to himself; "there is some mystery here. We
shall see."
CHAPTER IV.
THE SURVIVORS OF THE "WALDECK."
In spite of the watchfulness of the French and English cruisers, there
is no doubt that the slave-trade is still extensively carried on in all
parts of equatorial Africa, and that year after year vessels loaded
with slaves leave the coasts of Angola and Mozambique to transport
their living freight to many quarters even of the civilized world.
Of this Captain Hull was well aware, and although he was now in a
latitude which was comparatively little traversed by such slavers, he
could not help almost involuntarily conjecturing that the negroes they
had just found must be part of a slave-cargo which was on its way to
some colony of the Pacific; if this were so, he would at least have the
satisfaction of announcing to them that they had regained their freedom
from the moment that they came on board the "Pilgrim."
Whilst these thoughts were passing through his mind, Mrs. Weldon,
assisted by Nan and the ever active Dick Sands, was doing everything in
her power to restore consciousness to the poor sufferers. The judicious
administration of fresh water and a limited quantity of food soon had
the effect of making them revive; and when they were restored to their
senses it was found that the eldest of them, a man of about sixty years
of age, who immediately regained his powers of speech, was able to
reply in good English to all the questions that were put to him. In
answer to Captain Hull's inquiry whether they were not slaves, the old
negro proudly stated that he and his companions were all free American
citizens, belonging to the state of Pennsylvania.
[Illustration: Mrs. Weldon, assisted by Nan and the ever active Dick
Sands, was doing everything in her power to restore consciousness to
the poor sufferers.]
"Then, let me assure you, my friend," said the captain, "you have by no
means compromised your liberty in having been brought on board the
American schooner 'Pilgrim.'"
Not merely, as it seemed, on account of his age and experience, but
rather because of a certain superiority and greater energy of
character, this old man was tacitly recognized as the spokesman of his
party; he freely communicated all the information that Captain Hull
required to hear, and by degrees he related all the details of his
adventures.
He said that his name was Tom, and that when he was only six years of
age he had been sold as a slave, and brought from his home in Africa to
the United States; but by the act of emancipation he had long since
recovered his freedom. His companions, who were all much younger than
himself, their ages ranging from twenty-five to thirty, were all
free-born, their parents having been emancipated before their birth, so
that no white man had ever exercised upon them the rights of ownership.
One of them was his own son; his name was Bat (an abbreviation of
Bartholomew); and there were three others, named Austin, Actæon, and
Hercules. All four of them were specimens of that stalwart race that
commands so high a price in the African market, and in spite of the
emaciation induced by their recent sufferings, their muscular,
well-knit frames betokened a strong and healthy constitution. Their
manner bore the impress of that solid education which is given in the
North American schools, and their speech had lost all trace of the
"nigger-tongue," a dialect without articles or inflexions, which since
the anti-slavery war has almost died out in the United States.
Three years ago, old Tom stated, the five men had been engaged by an
Englishman who had large property in South Australia, to work upon his
estates near Melbourne. Here they had realized a considerable profit,
and upon the completion of their engagement they determined to return
with their savings to America. Accordingly, on the 5th of January,
after paying their passage in the ordinary way, they embarked at
Melbourne on board the "Waldeck." Everything went on well for seventeen
days, until, on the night of the 22nd, which was very dark, they were
run into by a great steamer. They were all asleep in their berths, but,
roused by the shock of the collision, which was extremely severe, they
hurriedly made their way on to the deck. The scene was terrible; both
masts were gone, and the brig, although the water had not absolutely
flooded her hold so as to make her sink, had completely heeled over on
her side. Captain and crew had entirely disappeared, some probably
having been dashed into the sea, others perhaps having saved themselves
by clinging to the rigging of the ship which had fouled them, and which
could be distinguished through the darkness rapidly receding in the
distance. For a while they were paralyzed, but they soon awoke to the
conviction that they were left alone upon a half-capsized and disabled
hull, twelve hundred miles from the nearest land. Mrs. Weldon was loud
in her expression of indignation that any captain should have the
barbarity to abandon an unfortunate vessel with which his own
carelessness had brought him into collision. It would be bad enough,
she said for a driver on a public road, when it might be presumed that
help would be forthcoming, to pass on unconcerned after causing an
accident to another vehicle; but how much more shameful to desert the
injured on the open sea, where the victims of his incompetence could
have no chance of obtaining succour! Captain Hull could only repeat
what he had said before, that incredibly atrocious as it might seem,
such inhumanity was far from rare.
On resuming his story, Tom said that he and his companions soon found
that they had no means left for getting away from the capsized brig;
both the boats had been crushed in the collision, so that they had no
alternative except to await the appearance of a passing vessel, whilst
the wreck was drifting hopelessly along under the action of the
currents. This accounted for the fact of their being found so far south
of their proper course.
For the next ten days the negroes had subsisted upon a few scraps of
food that they found in the stern cabin; but as the store room was
entirely under water, they were quite unable to obtain a drop of
anything to drink, and the freshwater tanks that had been lashed to the
deck had been stove in at the time of the catastrophe. Tortured with
thirst, the poor men had suffered agonies, and having on the previous
night entirely lost consciousness, they must soon have died if the
"Pilgrim's" timely arrival had not effected their rescue.
All the outlines of Tom's narrative were fully confirmed by the other
negroes; Captain Hull could see no reason to doubt it; indeed, the
facts seemed to speak for themselves.
One other survivor of the wreck, if he had been gifted with the power
of speech, would doubtless have corroborated the testimony. This was
the dog who seemed to have such an unaccountable dislike to Negoro.
Dingo, as the dog was named, belonged to the fine breed of mastiffs
peculiar to New Holland. It was not, however, from Australia, but from
the coast of West Africa, near the mouth of the Congo, that the animal
had come. He had been picked up there, two years previously, by the
captain of the "Waldeck," who had found him wandering about and more
than half starved. The initials S. V. engraved upon his collar were the
only tokens that the dog had a past history of his own. After he had
been taken on board the "Waldeck," he remained quite unsociable,
apparently ever pining for some lost master, whom he had failed to find
in the desert land where he had been met with.
Larger than the dogs of the Pyrenees, Dingo was a magnificent example
of his kind. Standing on his hind legs, with his head thrown back, he
was as tall as a man. His agility and strength would have made him a
sure match for a panther, and he would not have flinched at facing a
bear. His fine shaggy coat was a dark tawny colour, shading off
somewhat lighter round the muzzle, and his long bushy tail was as
strong as a lion's. If he were made angry, no doubt he might become a
most formidable foe, so that it was no wonder that Negoro did not feel
altogether gratified at his reception.
But Dingo, though unsociable, was not savage. Old Tom said that, on
board the "Waldeck," he had noticed that the animal seemed to have a
particular dislike to negroes; not that he actually attempted to do
them any harm, only he uniformly avoided them, giving an impression
that he must have been systematically ill-treated by the natives of
that part of Africa in which he had been found. During the ten days
that had elapsed since the collision, Dingo had kept resolutely aloof
from Tom and his companions; they could not tell what he had been
feeding on; they only knew that, like themselves, he had suffered an
excruciating thirst.
Such had been the experience of the survivors of the "Waldeck." Their
situation had been most critical. Even if they survived the pangs of
want of food, the slightest gale or the most inconsiderable swell might
at any moment have sunk the water-logged ship, and had it not been that
calms and contrary winds had contributed to the opportune arrival of
the "Pilgrim," an inevitable fate was before them; their corpses must
lie at the bottom of the sea.
Captain Hull's act of humanity, however, would not be complete unless
he succeeded in restoring the shipwrecked men to their homes. This he
promised to do. After completing the unlading at Valparaiso, the
"Pilgrim" would make direct for California, where, as Mrs. Weldon
assured them, they would be most hospitably received by her husband,
and provided with the necessary means for returning to Pennsylvania.
The five men, who, as the consequence of the shipwreck, had lost all
the savings of their last three years of toil, were profoundly grateful
to their kind-hearted benefactors; nor, poor negroes as they were, did
they utterly resign the hope that at some future time they might have
it in their power to repay the debt which they owed their deliverers.
[Illustration: The good natured negroes were ever ready to lend a
helping hand.]
CHAPTER V.
DINGO'S SAGACITY.
Meantime the "Pilgrim" pursued her course, keeping as much as possible
to the east, and before evening closed in the hull of the "Waldeck" was
out of sight.
Captain Hull still continued to feel uneasy about the constant
prevalence of calms; not that for himself he cared much about the delay
of a week or two in a voyage from New Zealand to Valparaiso, but he was
disappointed at the prolonged inconvenience it caused to his lady
passenger. Mrs. Weldon, however, submitted to the detention very
philosophically, and did not utter a word of complaint.
The captain's next care was to improvise sleeping accommodation for Tom
and his four associates. No room for them could possibly be found in
the crew's quarters, so that their berths had to be arranged under the
forecastle; and as long as the weather continued fine, there was no
reason why the negroes, accustomed as they were to a somewhat rough
life, should not find themselves sufficiently comfortable.
After this incident of the discovery of the wreck, life on board the
"Pilgrim" relapsed into its ordinary routine. With the wind invariably
in the same direction, the sails required very little shifting; but
whenever it happened, as occasionally it would, that there was any
tacking to be done, the good-natured negroes were ever ready to lend a
helping hand; and the rigging would creak again under the weight of
Hercules, a great strapping fellow, six feet high, who seemed almost to
require ropes of extra strength made for his special use.
Hercules became at once a great favourite with little Jack; and when
the giant lifted him like a doll in his stalwart arms, the child fairly
shrieked with delight.
"Higher! higher! very high!" Jack would say sometimes.
"There you are, then, Master Jack," Hercules would reply as he raised
him aloft.
"Am I heavy?" asked the child,
"As heavy as a feather."
"Then lift me higher still," cried Jack; "as high as ever you can
reach."
And Hercules, with the child's two feet supported on his huge palm,
would walk about the deck with him like an acrobat, Jack all the time
endeavouring, with vain efforts, to make him "feel his weight."
Besides Dick Sands and Hercules, Jack admitted a third friend to his
companionship. This was Dingo. The dog, unsociable as he had been on
board the "Waldeck," seemed to have found society more congenial to his
tastes, and being one of those animals that are fond of children, he
allowed Jack to do with him almost anything he pleased. The child,
however, never thought of hurting the dog in any way, and it was
doubtful which of the two had the greater enjoyment of their mutual
sport. Jack found a live dog infinitely more entertaining than his old
toy upon its four wheels, and his great delight was to mount upon
Dingo's back, when the animal would gallop off with him like a
race-horse with his jockey. It must be owned that one result of this
intimacy was a serious diminution of the supply of sugar in the
store-room. Dingo was the delight of all the crew excepting Negoro, who
cautiously avoided coming in contact with an animal who showed such
unmistakable symptoms of hostility.
The new companions that Jack had thus found did not in the least make
him forget his old friend Dick Sands, who devoted all his leisure time
to him as assiduously as ever. Mrs. Weldon regarded their intimacy with
the greatest satisfaction, and one day made a remark to that effect in
the presence of Captain Hull.
[Illustration: "There you are, then, Master Jack!"]
"You are right, madam," said the captain cordially; "Dick is a capital
fellow, and will be sure to be a first-rate sailor. He has an instinct
which is little short of a genius; it supplies all deficiencies of
theory. Considering how short an experience and how little instruction
he has had, it is quite wonderful how much he knows about a ship."
"Certainly for his age," assented Mrs. Weldon, "he is singularly
advanced. I can safely say that I have never had a fault to find with
him. I believe that it is my husband's intention, after this voyage, to
let him have systematic training in navigation, so that he may be able
ultimately to become a captain."
"I have no misgivings, madam," replied the captain; "there is every
reason to expect that he will be an honour to the service."
"Poor orphan!" said the lady; "he has been trained in a hard school."
"Its lessons have not been lost upon him," rejoined Captain Hull; "they
have taught him the prime lesson that he has his own way to make in the
world."
The eyes of the two speakers turned as it were unwittingly in the
direction where Dick Sands happened to be standing. He was at the helm.
"Look at him now!" said the captain; "see how steadily he keeps his eye
upon the fore; nothing distracts him from his duty; he is as much to be
depended on as the most experienced helmsman. It was a capital thing
for him that he began his training as a cabin-boy. Nothing like it.
Begin at the beginning. It is the best of training for the merchant
service."
"But surely," interposed Mrs. Weldon, "you would not deny that in the
navy there have been many good officers who have never had the training
of which you are speaking?"
"True, madam; but yet even some of the best of them have begun at the
lowest step of the ladder. For instance, Lord Nelson."
Just at this instant Cousin Benedict emerged from the stern-cabin, and
completely absorbed, according to his wont, in his own pursuit, began
to wander up and down the deck, peering into the interstices of the
network, rummaging under the seats, and drawing his long fingers along
the cracks in the floor where the tar had crumbled away.
"Well, Benedict, how are you getting on?" asked Mrs Weldon.
"I? Oh, well enough, thank you," he replied dreamily; "but I wish we
were on shore."
"What were you looking for under that bench?" said Captain Hull.
"Insects, of course," answered Benedict; "I am always looking for
insects."
"But don't you know, Benedict," said Mrs. Weldon, "that Captain Hull is
far too particular to allow any vermin on the deck of his vessel?"
Captain Hull smiled and said,--
"Mrs Weldon is very complimentary; but I am really inclined to hope
that your investigations in the cabins of the 'Pilgrim' will not be
attended with much success."
Cousin Benedict shrugged his shoulders in a manner that indicated that
he was aware that the cabins could furnish nothing attractive in the
way of insects.
"However," continued the captain, "I dare say down in the hold you
could find some cockroaches; but cockroaches, I presume, would be of
little or no interest to you."
"No interest?" cried Benedict, at once warmed into enthusiasm; "why,
are they not the very orthoptera that roused the imprecations of Virgil
and Horace? Are they not closely allied to the _Periplaneta orientalis_
and the American Kakerlac, which inhabit--"
"I should rather say infest," interrupted the captain.
"Easy enough to see, sir," replied Benedict, stopping short with
amazement, "that you are not an entomologist!"
"I fear I must plead guilty to your accusation," said the captain
good-humouredly.
"You must not expect every one to be such an enthusiast in your
favourite study as yourself." Mrs. Weldon interposed; "but are you not
satisfied with the result of your explorations in New Zealand?"
"Yes, yes," answered Benedict, with a sort of hesitating reluctance; "I
must not say I was dissatisfied; I was really very delighted to secure
that new staphylin which hitherto had never been seen elsewhere than in
New California; but still, you know, an entomologist is always craving
for fresh additions to his collection."
While he was speaking, Dingo, leaving little Jack, who was romping with
him, came and jumped on Benedict, and began to fawn on him.
"Get away, you brute!" he exclaimed, thrusting the dog aside.
"Poor Dingo! good dog!" cried Jack, running up and taking the animal's
huge head between his tiny hands.
"Your interest in cockroaches, Mr. Benedict," observed the captain,
"does not seem to extend to dogs."
"It isn't that I dislike dogs at all," answered Benedict; "but this
|
for our constant direction,
and for the daily needs of our lives.
The level to which the Saviour raised our lives and the dignity to which
He invites us are far, indeed, above our natural powers. Left to
ourselves, we could never attain the heavenly heights to which, in His
goodness, He has called us. Through the infinite merits of His life and
sacrifice we have been redeemed and reclaimed from the enemy of our souls;
the gates of Heaven, closed against us before, have been opened wide; and
our wayward race is again restored to the road that leads to our immortal
home. But just because our celestial destiny is of so high and sublime a
character, it is impossible, if left to our own abilities, that we should
be able long to pursue it, and vastly beyond our sublimest hopes that we
should ever finally attain it. We have, it is true, ever before us, the
life and example of Him who has saved us; we know that His cross and death
have delivered us from the wrath that frowned upon us. But we are weak and
fragile mortals. With respect to things of the higher life—of the
supernatural world—we, of ourselves, shall always remain as helpless and
frail as infants. Not less unable is the babe of yesterday to traverse
unaided and explore the material world, than the wisest of men would be to
know and grasp by his natural powers the unrevealed good of the immortal
human spirit. And as, in our natural state, we could not know the true end
of our existence, without a divine revelation, so likewise, we could not
pursue and attain our spiritual destiny without special assistance from on
high.
How well all this was known to our kind and kingly Shepherd! How keenly
did He appreciate our frailty and inability to walk alone the paths which
He had trodden! Not unmindful, therefore, was He constantly to teach and
direct the way which leads to unending life. When going before his flock
and teaching them by force of example, He did not omit to give them that
saving doctrine which, when He had disappeared, would be their guide, and
the guide to their future shepherds in the direction of safety and truth.
Hence He propounded a teaching which should be to its obedient followers a
realization at once of all He had promised them, and of all their heart’s
desires. Not that it would make them rich or great in the eyes of the
world and according to human standards, but that it would confer a truer
and a higher greatness by lifting them above their weak and natural level
and preparing them for eternal blessedness.
Men had the Law before the coming of Christ; they knew the ten
commandments. But the state to which the God-man called them, and the
eminence to which they were raised, were quite beyond anything the world
till then had ever been able to conceive. Human nature, under the New
Covenant, was invited to attain to perfection. Things which before were
thought impossible, were now to be the objects of our daily strivings. It
was no longer an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth; now not only was
good to be done to those who were good to us, but to those also who did us
evil; not only were we to love our friends, but to love and assist our
enemies also; not only should evil deeds be avoided, but evil thoughts
were likewise forbidden—yea, we were asked to be, in all our thoughts and
deeds, imitators of the Shepherd who leads us.(13)
Poor human nature, when raised so high above its natural powers, stood in
perilous need of a shepherd’s tender care. The new demands of every day
made indispensible new and special daily helps. While our spirits can see
and know the way, under the light of heavenly teaching, yet how weak and
faltering is our flesh! We have the will to do; but to accomplish, we
alone are not able. Therefore our Saviour said, “Of yourselves, you can do
nothing, but in me all things are possible to you. The branches are
nothing unless they abide in the vine; I am the vine, you the
branches.”(14) Thus He is our Leader, our divine Teacher and our source of
strength. Without Him we can do nothing, but in Him we are strong. And
daily and constantly He is near us, though we see Him not. It is He who
sustains our very life and moves us to all that is good. Like an
ever-present friend, He offers us constant assistance: He instructs and
guides and helps us, and this is the strength and food of our souls. God’s
grace it is, always ready for our use, which makes possible all the high
demands put upon our nature. Without it we should faint and starve on our
journey, and hence He who has planned our high perfection, has provided
the help to attain it. What are those seven wonderful sacraments which He
has left us, but perennial channels of grace, constant fountains from
which stream the life-giving waters that nourish our weary souls and make
them strong for life eternal! Through these sacred means we are brought
into contact with the life and merits of our Shepherd-Redeemer. They
prolong His life and labors among us, they continue in our midst the
strength of His sacred presence.
In a manner altogether special is this true of the Holy Sacrament of the
altar. By the Holy Eucharist, Christ still is with us, and will so remain
till the end of time, as really and as truly as He dwelt on earth in the
days of His mortal life. Bound down as we are by the things of sense, we
may, at times, be tempted to complain that Christ in this sacrament is all
invisible to us. We can not see Him directly and immediately. His voice is
silent and we do not hear Him; we do not feel the caress of His hand. But
nevertheless we know He is present, for He has said it, and His word must
remain, though heaven and earth should pass away. Even were we privileged
to see the sacred humanity as it was seen of old in Palestine, we should
not then, more than now in this sacrament, directly see the divinity
concealed by the human frame. Faith then was required as well as now—faith
in His sacred words, made evident by His sacred deeds. This is not
strange; it is not too much to ask. The same demand of faith is daily made
upon us in much of our intercourse with our fellow mortals. Much that we
do not clearly see we must perforce believe, else life would be
impossible. The same, in a measure, is also true in all our human
friendships. That which is most precious in our friends, that which is the
source of life and beauty, of holy words and loving actions, of all we
love and cherish in them, is the soul, the spirit that quickens and moves;
and this we do not see.
Thus Christ in the Eucharist is truly present, though faith alone can
apprehend Him. He requires of us this faith—this humble subjection of our
sensible faculties to the power and truth of His words. It is all for our
good that now He is hidden from our sight. He is not the less truly
present, not less truly kind, not less loving, not less merciful and
forbearing; but He wishes to exercise our faith, to prove our fidelity and
trust in His teaching and promises, and hence He is hidden from the powers
of our senses.
In the sacrament of the Eucharist the gracious Shepherd of our souls
performs in particular three offices for us: He is our sacrifice, our
silent patient friend, and in communion He becomes the actual spiritual
food of our souls. As a victim He is daily and constantly, from the rising
to the setting of the sun, lifted up for us in the holy sacrifice of the
mass. The mass is the perpetuation of the sacrifice He offered long ago
for our redemption. All the altars throughout the world, on which He is
ever born and dies again in mystic repetition, are but an extension of the
one great altar of Calvary, where first He gave His life for our
salvation. And in this real and awful sacrifice, forever repeated in our
midst, He pleads again our cause with God, the eternal Father. Again in a
mystic manner He suffers for us, again He bleeds, again He is nailed to
the cross and raised on high, and in that same abandoned, pitiable state,
to which His love for His flock has reduced Him, ever and anon in our
behalf He pleads: “Father forgive them, for they know not what they
do!(15) Holy Father, Powerful God, stay Thy avenging hand! and save the
souls which Thou hast created for Thyself, and for which till the end of
time I die!” He lifts, as it were, before the great white throne, His
bruised and blood-stained hands, He shows those wounded feet, the scar of
the spear in His sacred side; He points again to the agony in the garden,
to the scourging at the pillar, to the cruel crown of thorns, to the weary
way of the cross, and exclaims to Him who sits upon the throne, “Behold,
my Father, and see the price of my sheep, the tears and sorrow and blood
they have cost me! and spare them and save them for the sake of Thy Son!”
Through the holy sacrifice of the mass, identical as it is with the
sacrifice of Calvary, all the merits of Christ’s life and death are
applied to our souls. By His physical and bloody immolation on Calvary,
Christ purchased for us infinite treasures of grace, and it is His will
that these graces shall be dispensed to us, even till the end of the
world, through the august sacrament of the altar. Moreover, except for the
mass, we should not be blessed with the abiding actual presence of our
divine Shepherd among us—that is, we should not possess Him in that
special, intimate manner in which we now have Him in the Eucharist. For it
is only in the mass that the sacred species are consecrated; and
consequently it is through the mass alone that He takes up His sacramental
presence in our midst and becomes our food in holy communion. He could,
indeed, have ordained it otherwise, but such has been His blessed will,
and such the condition in which we are placed by the direction of His holy
Church.
Besides being our daily sacrifice, then, under the appearance of bread and
wine, besides ever prolonging in our midst that wondrous act of Calvary by
which at once He liberated our race and reopened to us the gates of
Heaven, the bounteous Shepherd of our souls enters into the tabernacles of
our churches, and there in silent patient waiting He craves the love of
our hearts and longs for our intimate friendship. He is not content alone
to plead for us with God, His Father; He is not content continually to
renew in our presence the tragic mystery by which at the end of His
earthly labors, He procured us every blessing—no, over and above these
sovereign acts of kindest benediction, He wishes to remain among us, and
to converse with us, each and all, as a friend would converse with his
friend. This is what He meant when He said by the mouth of His inspired
writer, “my delights are to be with the children of men.”(16) As a
Shepherd, His chiefest pleasure, as well as His supremest care, is to be
with the flock He has purchased and loves. Yet it is a lonely life for our
Shepherd-King, this abode in the silent tabernacle; but it is all for love
of us. He wishes to be there where we can find Him, where we can come to
Him at any hour and speak to Him, to praise and thank Him for all His dear
and endless gifts, to tell Him our needs and our sorrows, to open our
breaking hearts to Him and reveal the secrets of our souls. This it is
that He desires from us—the outpouring of our hearts and souls in His
presence. This it is which renders unto Him that homage of faith and love
and devotion that He came into the world to inspire. It will not do to say
that, being God, He is acquainted with all our thoughts and aware of all
our wants, for it is intimacy and confidence that He desires, the intimacy
and confidence which alone can create a true and noble friendship. “I will
call you no longer servants,” He said to His disciples, “but I have called
you friends; the servant knoweth not what his Master doth, but a friend is
admitted to confidence.”(17) Christ in the tabernacle is our friend; He
has loved us unto the end, and He yearns for our love in return. Why is
this? Why are we so precious in His eyes? What are we that the great
Creator should at all be mindful of us?(18) We must remember and ever bear
in mind the lofty purpose which the Creator had in view when first He
called us into being—the same purpose it was which prompted our redemption
and all the gracious dispensations that have followed thereupon—namely,
that God, while achieving His own eternal honor and glory, might
communicate to us a portion of His own ineffable blessedness. We were made
for God, and not for the world, or for creatures, or for ourselves. And
precisely because we are the possession and property of God, He wants us,
soul and body, for Himself; and in this blessed sacrament He calls to us
individually, “Son, give Me thy heart;”(19) “come to Me, all you who are
burdened, and I will refresh you.”(20) “come to Me and find rest for your
souls, I will lead you beside the waters of quietness.”
But the excesses of our Shepherd’s love and care do not stop with the
altar and with the tabernacle. He is not satisfied with being our daily
sacrifice and our abiding friend, not satisfied until He enters into our
very bosom and unites us to Himself. Union with the beloved object and
delight in its presence are characteristic of all true friendship, whether
human or divine. That which we really love we desire to have, to possess,
to be united with; and hence it is that Christ, the lover of our souls,
has not only given His life to purchase us for Himself and Heaven, but has
so extended His loving-kindness as to become Himself our actual food.
It is incomprehensible, in a human way, that the love of a shepherd for
his flock, the love of God for His creatures, should be so extraordinary
as to provide the wondrous benefits which Christ in the Eucharist has
wrought for us. We simply cannot grasp with our feeble minds the
prodigality of such enduring love. But the Saviour knew His purpose with
us, and He knew the needs of our souls. As guests destined for an eternal
banquet, and as heirs to celestial thrones, it is needful for us, amid the
rough ways and perils of life, to be constantly reminded of our royal
destiny and strengthened against our daily foes. This world of ours is an
arena in which each one must contend for his eternal prize; and it is not
possible, considering our natural frailty and the enemies that oppose our
forward march, that we alone, without an added strength, should ever be
able to win the battle of life.
Hence, as the body, to maintain its vigor and perform its work, needs its
material and earthly food, so the soul, to live and be strong, must be
nourished with the bread of Heaven. “The bread that I will give,” said our
Lord, “is my flesh for the life of the world... unless you eat of this
bread you cannot have life in you... and he that eateth my flesh and
drinketh my blood hath life everlasting, and I will raise him up on the
last day.”(21)
In order, then, to sustain our spiritual life on earth and to make us
strong for our daily conflicts, our heavenly Shepherd has left us a food
which is none other than His own body and blood. What a prodigy of love!
What could He do for us that He has not done? But, besides giving us
strength, He had another purpose in becoming our food. Since He has chosen
us for Himself, and has provided, in another world, eternal mansions for
our souls,(22) He wishes to make certain, not only the happy issue of our
lives, but our ever-increasing resemblance to Himself. He is therefore
preparing us, He is fitting us, through communion in the Holy Eucharist,
for our celestial home, and for visible companionship with Himself.
Intercourse, communion, intimate relationship produce likeness, even here
on earth, and it is a singular effect of Holy Communion that, unlike
earthly food, it changes into itself all those who partake of it.
Material, natural food becomes the substance of our flesh and blood, but
frequent participation in the heavenly nourishment of Christ in the
Eucharist transmutes our whole being—our lives and thoughts and
actions—into its own supernatural character.
Thus by living much with Christ on earth, by intimate converse with Him,
by allowing Him to enter into our lives and thoughts, and shape our
conduct and actions; and above all, by frequent and fervent communion with
Him in the sacrament of His love, we become like unto Him, even here in
our state of exile. And this likeness to Christ, which His faithful
servants assume here below, is a forestate of future blessedness; it is a
preparation for the great reunion and the eternal banquet which await us
in Heaven. Already we are led beside the waters of rest; we are directed
to pastures of sweetest nourishment; and through the calm and vigor that
reign in the soul we experience even now a taste of joys unseen.
V. HE RESTORETH MY SOUL.
Throughout the pastoral country of the Orient there are numerous places of
great peril for sheep. There are also, here and there, private fields and
vineyards and gardens into which, if a member of a flock should stray and
be caught, it is forfeited to the owner of the land. Strange as it may
seem, the sheep never learn to avoid these dangerous spots and forbidden
places, and it behooves the shepherd to be ever on his guard for them, and
to rescue them when wandering.
Here we cannot fail to observe the striking resemblance between this
wayward tendency of the shepherd’s flock and our own inclination and
propensity to wander from God and things eternal. The world is full of
occasions to evil; at every turn of the road on our journey through life
there are fierce and crouching enemies who are waiting the chance to
capture and bear us away. We know this; we have often been warned of the
danger; too many sad experiences and breathless escapes have convinced us
of the sundry perils to soul and body that lie along the way of life. But
we, like senseless, erring sheep, if bereft of the Shepherd’s guiding
care, do not learn, in life’s sad school, the way to keep free from harm.
Though wounded repeatedly, and scarred and worn, and left, perhaps,
without human aid, to waste and bleed our life away, we do not see the
lurking evils; we do not discern beneath the mask the enemy whose purpose
is ruin and death.
The creatures of the world, the things of sense take vicious hold of us,
and often drag us to the very verge of perdition before we are aware. They
come to us unprepared, and seek entrance into our lives and thoughts, and
allure us by deception. They tell us that the world is fair and beautiful
and full of promise; that God, for the moment, is not concerned; that the
soul is secure and safe, and the body and its needs the only object of
present solicitude. The process is gradual. The turning away and the loss
are not at once and from the beginning of seductive influences, but slowly
and unobtrusively in the guise of hope and high expectation. There is
Ambition, with its glittering prospects, with its proffered rewards and
castles of air. To the young man and young woman, just entering the arena
of life, Ambition says, “Come and follow me, and I will crown you with
glory and honor. I will lift you above the common, beaten paths of men and
seat you on a gilded throne. I will introduce you to my sister Pride, and
we two will make you happy. Pride will teach you your true dignity, your
place and position in the universe; she will remind you of your gifts and
faculties, and enable you to battle with the weak and the strong; she will
give you the secret of knowledge and train you to soar above your
fellow-creatures and probe the mysteries of God and Heaven.” Then
Pleasure, with dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes, and words that sound like
music to the ears, hurries out to greet the passers-by, and charms them by
her shining gifts. “Make me your object and your end,” she says, “and I
will make you blessed. Forget your troubles and your cares, your fears of
present and future ills; rejoice and be glad, eat, drink and be merry;
indulge and drain to dregs the cups of sense, for this is all there is.”
Philosophy comes with another hope. “Drink deeply,” she counsels, “at the
spring of wisdom, and fear not God nor man; believe and trust in me, and I
will steal away the sting of sorrow and pain; I will restore you to man’s
primeval state and land you safe on the shores of rest.”
And when these deceivers—Ambition, Pride, Pleasure, and the like—have
plundered and sacked their victim’s goods, when these painted idols of a
passing world have led away their worshippers as slaves, and stripped them
of all they possessed, they give them over to evil habits and to masters
that scourge and tear them. Like other prodigals, these pursuers of
earthly phantoms take leave of their Father’s house of comfort and plenty,
they give up virtue, innocence, honesty, purity; they go into a far
country to waste their substance living riotously, only to awake, soon at
latest, to a land of famine, and to find themselves alone and in want.
Instead of the honor and fame and high estate they sought to gain, instead
of the escape from evil and pain and labor they hoped to find, they are
sent into fields to minister to swine—the swine of their own degradation.
So, to a degree, it is with us, each and all, who listen to other voices
and heed other calls than the voice and the call of God. If we prefer to
stray to other fields and desert the pasture of our Shepherd, if we prefer
a far country to our Father’s home, if the world and its fleeting
pleasures are more to us than God and His paternal rewards, then we must
of necessity find ourselves at length in utter want and penury. It is this
possibility of deserting God, of seeking happiness outside of Him, of
overturning the plans which He has made for our salvation, that gives us a
vision of the awful failure of human life. The gifts of this world are by
nature fleeting and fast-flying, and if we allow them to take the place of
Him who made them, no matter how great our present boons, in spite of
wealth and friends and all success, we have missed our chance and our
purpose in the world, and can only have at last a desolate and a ruined
life.
But how is it, then, one may ask, that man can be so deceived? How is it
that we do not learn from others’ disasters to avoid, every one of us,
those deceiving, ruinous masters, those false gods that can lead us away
from the one true Shepherd of our souls? It is, indeed, a curious fact
that our deception is so easy. Surely a rational, intelligent being, who
stops to consider, ought easily to distinguish between the great God of
Heaven and the creatures of His hands. It ought not to be difficult for us
to see the transient vanity of human things when compared with the eternal
mansions. But the truth of the matter is, that we _are_ deceived, we do
not at all times see the objects of our choice as they really are
objectively. Our vision is defective and blurred. If God stood out in our
lives as He really ought to stand, if He occupied that place in our
thoughts and plans which belongs to Him by right, it would not be possible
that we should ever be led astray. And that God does not always hold in
our lives the place which is His due is partly the result of our fallen
nature; partly, therefore, in a way, excusable; but more frequently and
chiefly from our own perversity—from wilful neglect of our highest duties.
The blindness and perversity of our nature, which have come from the
wounds of original sin, make it easy for us, if we are neglectful and
careless of our higher spiritual obligations, to mistake the false for the
true, evil for good, the creature for the Creator. In the midst of the
world and its allurements, it behooves us to be ever watching, if we are
never to stumble and to fall. Had our nature never been corrupted by
original unfaithfulness, had our first parents never turned away from God
and transgressed His sacred precept, all our present ills would never have
existed. But now it is different. We are born into the world a weakened
people; each one of us has had an implicit part in the first
transgression; we all, like erring sheep, have gone astray. And while this
tendency to evil is part of our natural condition, and therefore less
imputable to us, it nevertheless is true that our actual sins and
evil-doing are the work of our deliberate choice. If, at any time, we
really turn away from God and break His law, it is because we have freely
chosen so to act. The native perversity of nature in a normal man can
never explain and excuse the grievous sins which he deliberately commits.
It is only true that a weak and wounded nature leaves one less able to
choose what is right, and more disposed to wrong. And since we know the
state of things, since we know that the fault is really ours when we dare
to stray to forbidden deeds and places, how constant and unrelenting, if
we are truly wise, should be our efforts to keep our vision unobscured and
our ears attuned to the voice and call of our heavenly Shepherd! We know
that by following Him our way will be certain and clear. Howsoever
enormous the evils of life, and notwithstanding all our weakness, we know
that in Him we are safe and strong. But we must hear Him to follow Him, we
must be guided and directed by His gracious commands.
This failure to hear and obey the voice of God it is which more explains
the falls and sins of men than all their inherited frailty. So long as His
words are heard and directions heeded, mistake and error are impossible.
We see, therefore, why it is that so many actually do desert Him and are
led by evil voices. The cause chiefly lies in the wilfulness of human
nature and in the abuse of human liberty. We cannot stand unless God
support us, and we shall surely fall if He withdraws His supporting hand.
But the choice of evil, the beginning of unfaithfulness comes from
ourselves; for Almighty God will never forsake us unless we first forsake
Him.
If, ever, then, we find our lives to be at variance with God, whether in
lesser or in greater matters, if it should ever be our unhappy fortune to
wander from Him, like another prodigal, and waste our lives with the
enemies of our souls, we can be assured that the desertion is all our own.
We forget God, we deliberately wander from His sight and care, and then we
fall. Engrossed in worldly affairs, taken up with present vanities, with
ourselves, our ease, our temporal advancement, we begin to neglect prayer
and communion with God, we begin to rely on ourselves and to forge ahead
of our own accord, only to encounter complete defeat and be shorn of all
our strength. The secret of our power and success is to keep close to Him,
to speak to Him lovingly and often, to seek guidance and protection from
Him, and habitually to live in His comforting presence.
But such is the boundless kindness of our heavenly Shepherd that, no
matter how often we may have wandered from Him, or how seriously we may
have grieved Him, He is ever ready to pursue our wanderings, and to seek
until He finds us. He does not stop to consider the enormity of our guilt,
or our unreasonableness, or our ingratitude, but He seeks us. He does not
pause to take an account of all He has done for us, of the many graces He
has given us, of the tears and blood He has shed in our behalf; but He
goes after our straying souls, and He will not be appeased until He
restore us. God does not will the death of the sinner, but that he be
converted and live.(23) He knows all our frailties and our diverse
temptations; He knows how alluring are the things of sense to a nature
perverted like ours; He knows how easy it is for us, blind and ignorant as
we are, to forget Him and our dearest interests, and to obey the call of
other voices; all this He understands, and He has pity on us. “He knoweth
our frame, He remembereth that we are dust.”(24)
To bring us back, therefore, when wandering, and to restore us to the
circle of His chosen flock, our Saviour has made ample provision. Through
those divine mediums of grace—the sacraments of His Church—He has arranged
to succor all our wants and to cure our various infirmities. The
sacraments of Baptism and Penance, in particular, were instituted to raise
our souls from death to life, and to heal our spiritual wounds. Baptism
may be aptly compared to the door of the sheepfold. It is the gate through
which men must enter into the fold of Christ, it is the entrance to His
Church. It clears away the guilt and stain of original sin, and restores
the soul from a state of enmity to the friendship and grace of God. None
can really belong to Christ, none can be of His true fold who have not
entered by way of the door, who have not been baptized. Many there are who
pretend to belong to Him and think themselves of the number of His flock;
they speak of Him as their Master and Shepherd; they pretend to be doing
His work; they call Him Lord and preach in His name; but they have not
entered by the door of the sheepfold, and He knows them not. Like thieves
and robbers, they have climbed up some other way, and they neither know
Him, nor does He know them, neither can they understand His voice. Baptism
is the entrance, it is the door, to the fold of Christ.
And as it is through Baptism that our bountiful Lord first recalls us from
the ways of sin and makes us members of his flock, so in the sacrament of
Penance He has provided a means by which we may at all times be recalled
from our wanderings and restored to His friendship. Penance is an
inexhaustible means of reconciliation between the erring soul and God. It
lasts throughout our lives, it stretches even to the end of time. If only
we are men of goodwill and have at heart our eternal interests, we need
not be disturbed at our frailty, or at repeated lapses into sin. There is
no sin which cannot be forgiven by the sacrament of Penance. Not that
anyone, knowing that he can be forgiven, should presume to abuse God’s
gracious sacrament, and yield freely and without restraint to the voice of
sin; nor that we are not to be truly sorry to the end of our days for
having even once offended our benign Maker and Redeemer; but we must be
confident that, whatever may have been our faults and failings, however
prolonged and extraordinary our transgressions, if we approach the
sacrament of Penance with sincere sorrow and a firm purpose of amendment,
God will always lovingly receive us back to Himself, and remember no more
our unfaithfulness. God hates sin, because it is opposed to Himself and is
the only evil in the world, but He loves the wounded sinner who is made in
His own image and likeness. Precious in the sight of God is the penitent
sinner. Does He not tell us Himself that, like a good shepherd, He leaves
ninety-nine just to go in search of one lost sheep? Yea, He assures us
that there is rejoicing among the angels of Heaven over one sinner who
does penance.(25)
To make worthy use of the sacrament of Penance we must be truly sorry for
having offended God, and be resolved, at the time of confession, to do
what lies in our power never again to turn away from Him. To these
dispositions must also be joined the intention of doing something to
repair the injury which sin has done to God. Given such conditions, and we
need only speak the word to God’s duly appointed minister and our sins are
no more. The dark veil which hung around the soul like a cloud is lifted,
and we again rejoice in the smile of our heavenly Father. How simple, yet
how potent are the means provided for our salvation! None but God could
have thought of them, nothing but the love of God could have arranged
them!
But even before the sinner is brought to penance, even while he is
wandering and reveling afar off in the vile delights of sin, God is
pursuing him, God is seeking after him, calling him by name, whispering to
his heart, disposing him for repentance. We cannot return to God, once we
have deserted Him, without His help. It is our awful power to be able to
leave Him, but to return alone we are not able. Wherefore He comes after
us when we have wandered into the wilds of sin; He pleads as it were, with
our souls, and offers us the grace to repent. Oh privileged are our souls
to be thus appraised by God, and happy those who hear and heed the
appealing voice of His grace!
VI. HE LEADETH ME IN THE PATHS OF JUSTICE FOR HIS NAME’S SAKE.
The shepherd country of the East is full of walks and pathways, some
leading this way, some that. Some lead to dangerous precipices over which
the sheep might fall and be lost, others would expose them to the attack
of wild beasts, while still others would lead them so far astray that they
could not find their way back. It is, therefore, always needful that the
shepherd go ahead of his flock and lead them in the right path. The
Psalmist, in the title of the present chapter, is applying this
carefulness of the shepherd for his sheep to our Lord, in His regard for
our spiritual welfare. The Saviour goes before us with the blessings of
His goodness to help and lead us aright, lest perchance we become lost and
perish in our journey.
This solicitude of our Redeemer in providing for the various needs of our
souls is characteristic of Him as Saviour. It is implied in the meaning of
his name. Before He was born, before He was conceived in His Mother’s
womb, it was foretold of Him that He should be called Jesus, which means
Saviour, for He would save His people from their sins.(26) He exercised,
as we know, this mission of saviour throughout His earthly career. It was
for this that He came into the world, for this that He was born in
Bethlehem with a manger as His cradle, for this that, at the age of
twelve, He was found teaching in the Temple, for this that He retired to
Nazareth and was subject to Mary and Joseph, for this that He labored and
suffered and bled and died. And with His passing from this visible scene
to the bosom of His Father, He did not cease to be that for which He had
been eternally anointed—the great High Priest, the Mediator between God
and man, the Saviour of the world. His work is everlasting; and now that
He has gone up on high, He pleads for us ever more with the Father. We
belong to Him, He has purchased us with His blood, and He must needs care
|
Try to absorb yourself in work, and so forget your loss. Do not let this
hideous uncertainty prey upon your mind, but banish it, for that is far
the best course to pursue."
He pressed his hand more firmly upon Jim's shoulder, and looked
earnestly into his face, as if to help him in coming to a decision. But
the young fellow scarcely seemed to be aware of his presence. His eyes
were fixed upon some distant object visible through the window, and his
thoughts were evidently still farther away. His head was bowed upon his
breast, and he looked for the moment as though this trouble, which had
come upon him at such an early age, was crushing him. But suddenly his
eye brightened, and a more cheerful expression overspread his face. He
straightened himself, and, raising his head, looked steadily at his
master.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "I know how kind you are, and that in
speaking to me in this way, and in giving me the benefit of your
experience and of your advice, you have acted with the sole purpose of
assisting me. But I cannot believe that my father is dead; I cannot,
indeed. Something tells me that he has survived the wreck, and that this
white man referred to in the telegram is none other than he. Until I
prove this or the contrary, I can never rest, and never settle to my
work. I am thankful now that my mother is not alive to feel this grief.
I am an only child, and my father is my best and kindest friend. I
cannot, and will not, forsake him. I don't know now how I shall act, but
I feel that if the necessity arises, as, indeed, it must, I will
willingly make my way into the heart of Somaliland, into the midst of
the Mullah's bands, and there clear up this doubt. If I find that it was
not he who was washed ashore and captured by the natives, then I shall
be far easier in my mind, and besides, sir, I might have the good
fortune at the same time to bring help to this poor captive. If he were
only a stoker, it would be sufficient reward to have rescued him from
such an horrible fate."
"But your examination, my lad. Will you permit yourself to miss it
altogether?" exclaimed the head master. "Think what it means to you. You
have now been reading hard for a year, and in two months, if only you
are successful, as I fully believe you will be, you will have won a
commission in the Army, and will be on the high-road to success, to
follow in the footsteps of your worthy father."
"I will give it up, sir," replied Jim, emphatically. "Everything must be
put aside for the sake of my father. I would rather lose this
commission, and spend the remainder of my days upon an office-stool,
than leave this doubt unsettled. It haunts me, and though I know how
hopeless the matter is, I will go through with it till I am sure of my
father's fate. But, in spite of everything, I feel that he still lives,
and, perhaps, is even now wondering whether his son will take up his
cause and set out for the purpose of rescuing him. There, sir, forgive
me for saying that my mind is firmly made up, and that I must act
contrary to your advice. In any other matter I would, as you know, have
instantly fallen in with your wishes. But here it is different, for my
father's life may be at stake, and both his happiness and mine depend
upon my exertions. Therefore, I ask you to let me leave at once and go
to my uncle. I will talk the matter over with him, and I feel sure that
he will help me in every way."
Involuntarily Jim's hand left the pocket in which it had been reposing,
and went out to meet his master's. And there together they stood for the
space of a minute exchanging a firm and cordial clasp.
"You are a credit to me!" exclaimed the head master, enthusiastically.
"A credit, I say, and your comrades here will be even prouder of you
than I am. I have put the position plainly before you. And, without
wishing to discourage you, have endeavoured to point out how hopeless it
is. You must know as well as I do what dangers and difficulties will
have to be faced in this undertaking, for your father and the many books
you have read will have given you some idea of life in Africa. Knowing
all this, and with a full knowledge that if you persevere in your search
you must undergo privation and exposure, and may even lose your life,
you tell me that you will sail for that country; that you have firmly
made up your mind to go through with it all for the sake of your father?
Then leave us, my lad, and may Heaven help you, for you are a brave
young fellow, and deserve the utmost success. There, go to your room and
pack your boxes. A cab will be at the door in half an hour; that will
enable you to catch the next train for London. There, leave me now. I
wish to think over the matter quietly before I say farewell."
Once more the two shook hands in silence, and then, turning about, Jim
went hurriedly from the room, and hastened to prepare for his journey.
An hour later he was in the train, and that evening had arrived at his
destination, leaving his friends at the school to mourn the loss of as
fine and good-hearted a young fellow as had ever entered its portals.
CHAPTER II
OFF TO ADEN
Jim Hubbard was a young gentleman of decidedly prepossessing appearance.
Broad of shoulder, and particularly well set up for a lad of a little
more than seventeen summers, he looked for all that far too young to
have such troubles thrown upon his shoulders, to be called thus early in
his life to face a difficulty which might well prove too great for a man
of mature years and experience. But just as the colonel was endowed with
the pluck and perseverance which had enabled him to live through that
wild night in the Gulf of Aden, so also was his son gifted with a spirit
and tenacity that helped him now to make up his mind to face any danger
and difficulty in accomplishing the task he had set himself.
"It is clearly my duty," he said, as he trudged along from the London
terminus of the railway to his uncle's residence in Kensington, "to see
this matter through to the end. I have spent hours and hours in thinking
about it, and have always come to the same conclusion. Until this doubt
is absolutely settled, I can never rest, and never be sure that my
father is not living. I will show him and all those who are interested
in him that I am no fair-weather friend, and that I am prepared to stick
to him and to his cause until further search is useless. I cannot
imagine anyone placed in similar circumstances coming to any other
determination, and if I were to hesitate now and allow imaginary dangers
to frighten me, I should be a coward at heart, and unfit to bear my
father's name. I'll put the facts before Uncle George, and I'm sure he
will do his utmost to help me. Ah, there is his house opposite."
Crossing the street, James mounted the steps of a handsome dwelling, and
pulled the bell vigorously. A moment later the door was thrown open by a
footman, who had scarcely taken possession of his bag and ushered him
into the hall before a short, stout old gentleman, with grey whiskers
and hair and a florid countenance, bustled forward to greet him. Mr.
George Hubbard was, in fact, some ten years the colonel's senior, and
was of decidedly comfortable appearance. Indeed, whereas his younger
brother had led an active life, going hither and thither to all parts of
the world, wherever the duties of a soldier called him, George could
scarcely boast that he had ever left the shores of old England.
"I'm a regular stay-at-home, and never feel better, nor more contented,
than when I am engaged in my business in London," he had often said,
with no small amount of satisfaction and pride. "I confess that a
soldier's life never had any attraction for me, though, like all
civilians, I can and do admire the man who goes out to face death at the
call of his country."
As he advanced towards Jim with outstretched hand, his fat,
good-humoured face showed the concern he felt for his young nephew.
"My dear, dear boy, welcome!" he exclaimed. "I don't know what to say to
you, or how to help you in this distressing affair. Both your aunt and I
have done nothing but talk the matter over, and have, indeed, spent
sleepless nights in endeavouring to come to some conclusion, but without
success. It is the most cruel, the most unhappy misfortune that I have
ever experienced. But come upstairs. Your aunt would never forgive me if
I kept her waiting."
Wiping the moisture from his forehead, and coughing as though the effort
of speaking had been almost too much for him, George Hubbard turned and
led the way upstairs. Jim followed him closely, and a minute later was
in his aunt's presence. Then sitting down, the three discussed the
matter fully, Jim telling his relatives to what decision he had come.
"You know the facts as well as I do, uncle," he said, "and I am going to
ask you to do all you can to help me, and not to try and thwart me. I
know how hopeless my mission must seem to you, and that many would think
I was undertaking a wild-goose chase. But, as I told the head master at
school, I feel sure that the man cast up upon the African coast was my
father, and if that is the case, he surely needs my help. I have been
thinking the matter over as I came up in the train, and bought a map
specially to help me. By it I see that my best course will be to take a
steamer direct to Aden, and from there I shall be able to get a trader
to Berbera. Meanwhile, I shall telegraph to the News Agency which
supplied the information sent me this morning, and will endeavour to
arrange that the man who saw this survivor of the wreck land upon the
coast, and afterwards fall into the hands of the Mullah's Somali
warriors, shall be in waiting to receive me. Then, with him as guide, I
shall make my way to the actual point where the incident happened, and
from there we shall turn our faces inland. It may happen that I shall be
able to join some shooting expedition, for one reads occasionally in the
papers that English gentlemen take caravans into that part of Africa for
the purpose of big game shooting. If not, I shall endeavour to hire a
few followers, and take up the search alone. I know it sounds a big
thing to attempt, uncle; but wouldn't you do the same in a similar
case?"
George Hubbard gasped. He was a man of peace, and though well read and
thoroughly sensible, he had, nevertheless, an exaggerated idea of the
wildness and dangers to be met with in Africa. Nor could he be blamed
for that, for weeks past the papers had been filled with accounts of
Somaliland, and of the doings of the Mullah. And now to sit there in a
comfortable armchair before his open hearth, and hear his young nephew
calmly propose to sail for Africa, and make his way into the very heart
of the Somali country, was quite enough to make a man of his disposition
do more than gasp. He sat forward in his chair staring at Jim with a
horrified expression on his face, and with eyes which threatened to fall
out of his head.
"Go to Africa! March into the interior, and probably meet the Mullah
face to face!" he exclaimed, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Good gracious, you will be killed, you will lose your life to a
certainty!"
"I may, uncle," responded Jim, calmly. "On the other hand, there is a
possibility of my succeeding, for many men have made their way into
Somaliland and returned to tell the tale. Think of the joy it would be
to rescue father."
"But it is madness, Jim! Because one single white man out of some two or
three hundred who left England on that unlucky ship contrived to reach
the shore alive, you fly to the conclusion that it must have been my
poor brother. It is utter folly to argue in this way, though I cannot
help but admire the brave thought which prompts you. Still, I am a
matter-of-fact man, and I say, without hesitation, that the dangers are
too great, and the end too uncertain, to justify your taking the risks.
However, no efforts and no money shall be spared to obtain further
information, and should it turn out, as I trust and hope it may, that
this survivor is indeed my brother, then you shall go. Indeed, so
deeply do I feel his loss, that I am tempted to say that I, too, would
join you in the search. But that would be foolish, considering what I
am, and how utterly unfitted for such exertions."
He rose from his seat, and turning, stood facing Jim, with a comical
look of despair upon his features. For some minutes there was silence,
and then, just as he was about to begin a long and telling argument,
with the object of dissuading Jim from an attempt which, to his uncle,
appeared worse than madness, a knock sounded on the door, and a footman
entered.
"A telegram, sir," he said.
With an agile spring, which was wonderful considering his unwieldy
proportions, George Hubbard left his position by the fire, and darted
across the room. Taking the telegram from the footman, he tore it open,
and then began to read it aloud, while Jim and his aunt jumped to their
feet and looked over his shoulder.
"From the News Agency!" he cried excitedly. "I gave them instructions to
spare no expense in obtaining information, and here is the result."
"Read it!" exclaimed Jim and his aunt, impatiently. "What does it say?"
"Listen!" answered Mr. Hubbard, holding the paper so that the light
should fall upon it. "'In accordance with your instructions, we have
questioned native who gave information. He states that surviving white
man was tall, with dark hair, getting grey at temples, grey moustache,
and muscular body. Not quite certain, owing to distance, but thinks he
caught a glimpse of a bangle about his wrist. If not that, it was a
piece of cloth tied there, perhaps to cover a wound.'"
"That is father!" shouted Jim, unable to restrain his excitement. "I am
certain it is he, for the description tallies exactly with his
appearance, and, moreover, he was in the habit of wearing a watch
bracelet upon his wrist."
"Tall, dark hair getting grey, and grey moustache," repeated Mr.
Hubbard, as if to assure himself that he had read the telegram aright.
"There can be no doubt that this is my brother. I quite agree with you,
Jim, for, though it is possible, and even very probable, that many men
aboard the ship would have answered to that description, the fact that
the survivor wore a dark bracelet upon his wrist is, in my opinion, an
absolute confirmation. I am glad, my boy--more than glad. Indeed, I
cannot tell you how much this good news rejoices my heart."
Turning to his nephew, he grasped his hand and shook it till the lad's
fingers ached, patting him meanwhile upon the shoulder with his other
hand.
"Yes, delighted; pleased beyond measure," he continued earnestly. "Now
you may rely upon the fact that your uncle is wholly on your side."
As for Mrs. Hubbard, she had a tender heart, and gently pushing her
husband aside, threw herself into Jim's arms with tears of joy in her
eyes.
"You deserve the good news, my dear boy," she said, kissing him
affectionately. "It went to my heart to see your silent grief, and how
bravely you had determined to clear up this uncertainty. It was horrible
to feel that your father might be dead, and still more trying to hear
that there was just a possibility that he was still alive, a captive in
the hands of this man they call the Mullah. The uncertainty was more
than I could bear, and I feel sure that, had I been a man, I should have
followed the same course, and gone to Africa, so as to set the matter
for ever at rest."
"And now let us discuss the question," interposed Mr. Hubbard, pacing
restlessly up and down the room. "There must be no delay in setting out
to rescue my brother, and as we in England can do little, seeing that we
are so far from Somaliland, I advise that you at once take ship for
Aden. It happens that my firm have business relations with a man living
there. He exports camels to that part of Africa ruled over by the
Italians, and gathers in his warehouses every description of merchandise
which comes from the interior of the country. If anyone can help you he
is the man. Now, let me see, a ship will leave the London Docks for the
Mediterranean and Egypt to-morrow evening; we will telephone at once to
obtain a berth for you. That done, we will set about getting you a kit,
for it is absolutely necessary that you should go well provided, and in
that respect the utmost attention must be paid to weapons. That reminds
me, a gentleman of my acquaintance who has visited Africa for purposes
of sport happens to live close at hand. We will go in and see him at
once, for it is more than likely that he will be able to give us
valuable advice."
It was wonderful to see the energy displayed by Mr. Hubbard. Now that
there was no doubt that it was his brother who had survived the wreck,
he was like a schoolboy in his eagerness to set about his rescue, and
took the matter up in a manner which showed that he was determined to do
as much for the cause in his own way as was his nephew. Hastening from
the room, he and Jim quickly donned their coats and hats, and hurried to
the nearest telephone station. As it was late in the evening, the
instrument was disengaged, and within five minutes a passage was booked
upon a steamer that was to leave England the following evening. Jim and
his uncle now hailed a cab, and were quickly transported to the
residence of the gentleman of whom the latter had spoken.
"Glad to be of service, I'm sure," he said, when Mr. Hubbard had
explained the reason of his coming. "Indeed, had it been possible, I
should willingly have undertaken to accompany your nephew, in which case
my experience of life in Northern Africa would have been of some help to
him. Aden is certainly his first point of call, and as you already have
an agent there, the difficulty of obtaining a passage over to Berbera,
and of getting together the necessary followers and camels for transport
purposes, will be easily overcome. I strongly advise him to engage a
'shikari,' or head hunting-man, to accompany him and take charge of the
natives; and if he applies at the British Consul's at Berbera, it is
possible that he will be able to obtain the services of a man called Ali
Kumar, a civilized Somali warrior, who accompanied me on an expedition
two years ago, and who proved invaluable. Now as to kit. A couple of
suits of rough cloth, with leather gaiters and good marching boots, will
be the best. A felt hat would be worse than useless as a head-covering
out there, for in the hot season the sun pours down with a fierceness
that cannot be imagined, and can only be fully understood when actually
experienced. Three or four water-tanks, so constructed as to be capable
of being easily slung upon camels, should be procured, for this
gentleman known as the 'Mad' Mullah has his happy hunting-grounds some
two hundred miles inland, and to reach him it is necessary first to
cross a range of hills, and then to face the Hoad, or waterless desert,
which stretches for quite a hundred and fifty miles without a break.
That is always a most trying ordeal, but you will have to face it, for,
until the Hoad is passed, there will be no prospect of obtaining more
than the most meagre news of your father."
"That will, indeed, be a terrible difficulty," interposed Mr. Hubbard.
"One often hears of whole caravans lost in the attempt to cross these
waterless tracts, and I suppose, in the case of this one which you call
the Hoad, such a fatality is not unknown."
"I will not say that accidents have not happened," was the answer, in
reassuring tones; "but so well is this desert known, and so accustomed
are the natives to crossing it, that they think lightly of its dangers.
But your raising the question reminds me to speak of animals. A good
supply of transport camels will be required, and, in addition, a dozen
or more of the trotting variety will be absolutely necessary. Then,
supposing our young friend happens to obtain some piece of important
news, he will be able to leave his caravan, and make a dash to any given
point. Horses, too, he must have, and he will find no difficulty in
getting as many as he requires. A small case of drugs is another item
that should prove of use, and I strongly advise him to take some rolls
of strong barbed wire. The additional weight that will have to be
carried will be fully compensated for by the feeling of security that
the wire will give."
"But how? I do not follow your point," said Mr. Hubbard dubiously. "I do
not see how this wire will help my nephew."
"Then I will explain. He will march in the early morning, and if the sun
is not too hot, will continue to do so for the greater part of the day.
Sometimes he will cover only a few miles, and will then halt, for his
powers of getting about the country will depend greatly upon the
condition of his transport animals. Again, he will occasionally have to
make forced marches, for the water-holes are often separated by long
distances, which it is absolutely necessary to cover.
"But to come to the barbed wire. When he halts at night, he will form a
zareba, sending out his followers to cut thorn-bushes with which to
build a hedge. A few posts driven into the ground at intervals along the
outside of the zareba, with wire stretched between them, will
effectually stop a rush of the enemy, and will give timely warning in
case of attack. In South Africa miles and miles were used between the
blockhouses, and proved of great service."
"I see your point," exclaimed Jim, who had followed his words closely,
"and I should imagine that if the posts and wires were hidden amongst
the thorns, the surprise and alarm of the enemy would be even greater.
Numbers might easily become entangled, and then we should be able to
teach them a lesson with our rifles."
"Quite so. I fully agree with you," was the answer. "And, speaking of
weapons, reminds me that I have not yet dealt with that subject."
For a few moments the speaker buried his face in his hands, and sat
there thoughtfully.
"There is no doubt," he suddenly continued, "that this is a most
important matter. I take it that you are not bent upon big game
shooting, and that if you come upon lions or elephants you will leave
them severely alone. For your purpose the Lee-Enfield rifle will be the
best, and should it turn out, as it very well may, that you are attacked
by the beasts I have mentioned, then you must trust to slay them by
means of a volley, for it is hopeless to expect that a single one of
these small-calibre bullets will prove fatal. If it were to strike a
vital spot it certainly would, but that is a piece of luck which you
must not count upon, for, remember, you cannot afford to take
unnecessary risks. So you should equip your party with the rifles I have
mentioned, and, in addition, a hunting knife and a brace of good
revolvers would be useful possessions for yourself. A pair of
field-glasses and a tin water-bottle should complete your equipment. I
need hardly mention the advisability of carrying an abundant supply of
ammunition.
"And now, my lad, it only remains for me to wish you the best of luck. I
admire your pluck immensely, but I shall give you a few last words of
advice. Be always cautious, never omit to post sentries at night and
visit them yourself, and, above all, be ever on the look-out for
treachery. The Somali natives have the reputation of being cunning
rogues. Plunder seems to be their sole object in life, and camels have a
peculiar attraction for them. They would think nothing of killing you,
if by doing so they could obtain possession of your transport animals."
Thanking him heartily for his kindness, and exchanging a cordial shake
of the hand, Jim and his uncle left their friend, and returned home at
once.
"We shall have to be busy to-morrow," said Mr. Hubbard, as they took
their seats once more in front of the fire. "In the first place, we must
get your clothing and revolvers, with a few strong trunks in which to
carry them. The rifles and any other items we may happen to think of can
be purchased during the week, and I shall see that they follow you out
to Aden. You will want to have means of drawing money, and for that
purpose I shall write full instructions to our agent. His name, by the
way, is Andrews, and you will find him an extremely obliging gentleman.
I shall tell him to supply you with anything you may ask for, and I may
say now that, though I do not desire that you should be extravagant, no
expense that may help to the recovery of my dear brother shall be
spared. And now to bed, my dear Jim, for to-morrow you have much to do."
Early on the following morning Mr. Hubbard's house in Kensington was
astir. There was an air of subdued excitement about the servants, who in
some mysterious way had contrived to hear full details of all that was
occurring. Mrs. Hubbard took her place at the breakfast-table, assuming
as cheerful a look as she could, though her heart was full of misgivings
for the safety of her nephew. But she was wise enough to know that he
needed encouragement and help, and therefore determined that he should
not guess what her thoughts were. As for Jim, he appeared with smiling
countenance, for now that he felt sure that his father had really
escaped the wreck, he was quite light-hearted, and though fully aware of
the difficulties and dangers before him, was prepared to face them
without hesitation.
"I know it's going to be a job," he had said to himself, as he lay awake
during the night, "and I must be prepared to spend months, and even a
year, in accomplishing it. But it has to be done, and if only I make up
my mind from the beginning that nothing shall beat me, then my chances
of success will be good."
Breakfast over, he said good-bye to his aunt, and then, entering a cab
with his uncle, drove off to a firm in the city, from whom he was able
to obtain a complete outfit of clothing. Trunks were bought at the same
place, and directions given to have them packed at once.
"We'll call for them in an hour," said Mr. Hubbard, "and I shall be
obliged if you will arrange to have everything ready for us, so that
there shall be no delay."
Entering their cab again, they drove to a gunsmith's, where a couple of
big Webley revolvers were purchased, together with a strong hunting
knife contained in a sheath, which was so arranged as to be slung in a
belt. A small case of drugs in tabloid form was obtained at another
establishment, and then, armed with their purchases, James and his uncle
returned for the clothing.
Within five minutes the luggage was on the cab, and they were on their
way to Fenchurch-street Station. An hour later James was safely
installed in his cabin, and shortly afterwards took leave of his uncle.
"You may rely upon my sending the other things promptly," said Mr.
Hubbard, as he moved towards the gang-way. "They should reach you within
a week of your arrival in Aden, and so that there shall be no difficulty
about importing the arms, or about transhipping them to Africa, you had
better go to the Governor at Aden, and tell him all the facts. I will
visit the Foreign Office in London, and I am sure that every effort will
be made to help you. Good-bye, and may you be successful."
That afternoon the steamer put out into the river, and by night was well
at sea. Running down Channel, she made a good passage to Ushant, and was
soon in the Bay of Biscay, which, to the delight of all the passengers,
was comparatively smooth.
Jim was enchanted with this new experience, and before very long began
to feel quite at home. Indeed, so quickly are friendships made upon an
ocean-going steamer, that within a day or two he felt as though he had
known all the passengers for quite a lengthy period.
After coasting along the Portuguese shore, the ship steered to the east,
and entered the Mediterranean. Gibraltar was sighted, and signals
exchanged, so as to let the folks at home know that a safe passage had
thus far been made.
A week later they were in the canal, and in due time reached Aden. Here
Jim's baggage was put ashore, and he himself followed, feeling somewhat
forlorn amongst so many strangers.
"Mr. Hubbard, I think?" said a cheery voice at his elbow, causing him to
turn round with a start, to find that a short, bearded man, with a
pleasant face, was addressing him. He was clad in white from head to
foot, and wore an enormous "topee," or pith helmet, upon his head. "I am
making no mistake, I think?" he continued. "I am Mr. Andrews."
In a moment they were shaking hands, and then Jim's new friend called
loudly to some Indian porters, and gave them instructions concerning the
baggage.
"Everything here is done by natives from India," he said, noticing a
look of inquiry on Jim's face. "In fact, Aden is, officially, part of
our Eastern possessions, and boasts of no other coin than the rupee. But
I will tell you all about that later. We'll drive to my place now. Hi!
gharri!"
At his shout an open carriage, drawn by two "tats," as the small native
ponies are known, dashed up to them, and when they were seated drove off
along the main street of Aden at a pace which in London would have been
considered furious. Leaving the town, they took another road which led
to the right, into a part occupied by many bungalows, and at one of
these they finally alighted.
"Aden itself is a horrible place," said Mr. Andrews, apologetically,
waving his hand towards the town. "It is, as you see, little more than a
wide volcanic plain, with nothing in the way of vegetation to relieve
its barrenness. Out here, however, we have contrived to arrange a little
oasis, in which we Europeans live. But come in, Mr. Hubbard, and I'll
show you the room you are to occupy while staying with me. Then we'll
have tiffin (luncheon), and afterwards we'll sit on the verandah and
talk this matter over. I believe I've excellent news for you, which you
shall hear in good time."
"About father? Does it concern him?" asked Jim, eagerly, pricking up his
ears at the mention of news, for he had been without any for more than a
week. "Perhaps he has been rescued? But that is expecting too much."
"No, it's not that," was the answer, in reassuring tones; "but it's
remarkably good news, I can tell you, for I have ascertained that a
certain gentleman is bound upon a similar expedition, or rather, is
about to go into the Mullah's country for the purpose of obtaining
intelligence of his movements. Hearing that you also contemplated
penetrating into the interior, he asks leave to accompany you, and I
have no doubt you will be delighted to take him."
"I shall, indeed," answered Jim, eagerly. "I was quite prepared to
undertake the journey alone, but a companion will make all the
difference, and I willingly agree to his joining my expedition."
"Then, that's settled; and now for tiffin."
Leading the way through a wide compound, laid out like an English
garden, Mr. Andrews mounted the steps of a shady verandah, and entering
a doorway in front of which hung a curtain of reeds, ushered his
companion into a delightfully cool inner room, in which, on a table
placed in the centre, was spread a snowy white cloth, littered with
sparkling glass and silver. Silent-footed natives salaamed and prepared
to wait upon them, and at once the two sat down and began their meal.
CHAPTER III
THE GUN-RUNNERS
"Now come out to the verandah," said Mr. Andrews, taking James by the
arm as soon as tiffin was finished. "I have a couple of comfortable
chairs there, in which we can lounge, for just now is the hottest part
of the day, and no European ventures abroad unless compelled to by
unforeseen circumstances."
Leaving the airy dining-room, the two stepped on to a broad paved
verandah, which entirely surrounded the bungalow, and took their seats
in a shady nook.
Above their heads was a thickly thatched roof, the eaves of which
projected so far beyond the supporting posts as to make a broad stretch
of shadow beneath. But as they lay in their chairs, Jim and his new
friend could easily see beneath it. For the moment they sat there in
silence. Indeed, Jim was lost in admiration, for Mr. Andrews had created
for himself a perfect English garden. Glancing between the pillars,
about which clung roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle, and many another
creeper, he looked out upon beds of brilliant flowers, laid out in
orderly array, and flashing gorgeously in the rays of the Eastern sun.
"I've only to forget the bungalow, and imagine myself in old England
again," said Mr. Andrews. "That garden is just one of the luxuries I
allow myself, and which helps to make life more pleasant here. Some day
I hope to end my exile and return home, for, however fascinating bright
and continuous sunshine may be, to return to one's native country is
always a pleasure to which we who live out here look forward. But here
is someone coming through the gate. Ah, I see, it's the gentleman of
whom I was speaking."
He sprang from his seat and went toward the steps to greet his visitor.
As for Jim, he watched with some interest to see what kind of man this
stranger should prove to be.
"I hope I shall like him," he said to himself, "for it would be
disastrous to our expedition if we were to fall foul of each other. But
here he is, and--yes, he looks a good fellow, and I am sure we shall be
excellent friends."
As this passed through his mind the visitor mounted the steps, and Jim
obtained a clear view of his features. He was tall and thin, with fair
hair and clean-shaven face, and, as far as one could guess, was about
twenty-five years of age.
"Ah, how do, Andrews?" he exclaimed cheerily, springing with one bound
on to the verandah. "Glad to see you, my dear fellow. I heard that the
ship had arrived, and so came along to have a chat, and to meet the Mr.
Hubbard of whom you were speaking."
"There he is, then," cried Mr. Andrews, turning to Jim; "and he, too, is
anxious to make your acquaintance."
A moment later the two were shaking hands, each greeting the other with
a steady look, which seemed to say, "I want to know what sort of a chap
you are, and how we are likely to get along together."
"Glad to meet you, and I hope we shall be good friends. My name is
Dixon--Tom Dixon; Tom for short."
"And mine is James
|
ACE.
Trail fires. SEE WALKER, J. GRACE.
BARTER, JOHN JOSHUA.
Crimes and penalties in Massachusetts.
© 5Jun35; A83508. John J. Barter
(A); 13May63; R315625.
BARTH, KARL.
God in action. English translation
by Elmer O. Homrighausen & Karl J.
Ernst. Introd. by Josias Friedli.
© on English translation; 23Mar36;
A92960. Round Table Press, a
subsidiary of Book Club Guild,
Inc. (PWH); 5Apr63; R313168.
God's search for man, by Karl Barth &
Edward Thurneysen. English translation
by George W. Richards, Elmer G.
Homrighausen & Karl J. Ernst. © on
English translation; 2Apr35; A81426.
Round Table Press, a subsidiary of
Book Club Guild, Inc. (PWH);
4Mar63; R311198.
BARTHET, EDWARD J.
Barthet's simplified conversion
tables. © 23Feb35; AA170278.
Edward J. Barthet (A); 17Jan63;
R308630.
BARTLEY, ALBERT L.
Tales of the World War. © 14Oct35;
A86884. Albert L. Bartley, Jr. (C);
27Mar63; R313024.
BARTLEY, ALBERT L., JR.
Tales of the World War. SEE
BARTLEY, ALBERT L.
BARTON, FRANCIS B.
Harper's French anthology. SEE
SIRICH, EDWARD H.
BARTON, WILFRED M.
Symptom diagnosis, regional and
general. By Wilfred M. Barton &
Wallace M. Yater. 3d ed. © 1Apr36;
A92704. Wallace M. Yater (A);
19Jun63; R317320.
BARUCH, DOROTHY WALTER.
I know a surprise. © 10Sep35;
A87276. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.,
Inc. (PWH); 6Mar63; R311222.
<pb id='016.png' n='1963_h1/A/0924' />
BASKIN, MRS. JAMES N., executor of the
Estate of Helen E. Haines. SEE
HAINES, HELEN E., ESTATE OF.
BASKIN, MARJORIE KINNAN RAWLINGS.
Golden apples, by Marjorie Kinnan
Rawlings. © 4Oct35; A87650. Norton
Baskin (Wr); 13May63; R315552.
BASKIN, NORTON.
Golden apples. SEE BASKIN,
MARJORIE KINNAN RAWLINGS.
Golden apples. SEE
RAWLINGS, MARJORIE KINNAN.
Having left cities behind me. SEE
RAWLINGS, MARJORIE KINNAN.
BASLER, ROY P.
The Lincoln legend; a study in
changing conceptions. © 13Aug35;
A86042. Roy P. Basler (A); 3Jan63;
R307578.
BASSO, HAMILTON.
The fabulous man. (In Scribner's
Apr. 1935) © 19Mar35; B256378.
Hamilton Basso (A); 30Jan63;
R309971.
BATES, HERBERT E.
The poacher. © 12Mar35; A80926.
H. E. Bates (A); 28Feb63; R311356.
BATHE, CHARLES GORDON.
Western ranger historical pioneer
map of the Old West. © 4Feb35;
AA166688. Charles Gordon Bathe (A);
3Jan63; R307572.
BATT, JILL COSSLEY.
Elixir of life. Rev. ed. © 15Oct35;
A107706. Jill Cossley Batt (A);
18Mar63; R312151.
BAUER, RALPH S.
The law of business, by Ralph S.
Bauer & Laurence P. Simpson.
© 7Feb36; A92517. West Pub. Co.
(PWH); 25Apr63; R314597.
BAUM, VICKI.
Wait woman. (In Redbook magazine,
July 1936) © 5Jun36; B301894.
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Inc. (PWH);
5Jun63; R316833.
BAUMGARTNER, LEONA.
A bibliography of the poem, Syphilis,
sive Morbus gallicus by Girolamo
Fracastoro, of Verona. By Leona
Baumgartner & John F. Fulton.
© 28May35; A84131. Mrs. John F.
Fulton (W); 18Apr63; R314029.
BAZIN, RENE.
Stephanette. Abridged & edited, with
introd., notes, exercises & vocabulary,
by Florentine B. Jassagne &
Mildred Severance. © on introd.,
notes, exercises & vocabulary;
9Jan36; A90610. Florentine B.
Jassagne & Mildred Severance (A);
21Jun63; R317365.
BEACH, REX E.
Alaska's flying frontiersmen.
(In The American magazine,
Apr. 1936) © 13Mar36; B293437.
Joe C. Kinsey & William L. Canady
(E); 17Apr63; R314298.
Fisherman's heaven. (In Hearst's
international-cosmopolitan, Apr.
1936) © 10Mar36; B293542. Joe D.
Kinsey & William L. Canady (E);
12Mar63; R312322.
Kenworthy case. (In Hearst's international
cosmopolitan, May 1936)
© 10Apr36; B297087. Joe D. Kinsey
& William L. Canady (E); 11Apr63;
R313812.
Modern miracle men. (In Hearst's
international-cosmopolitan, Feb.
1936) © 10Jan36; B287232. Joe D.
Kinsey & William L. Canady (E);
11Jan63; R308564.
<pb id='017.png' />
Modern miracle men: Dr. Charles
Northern. (In Hearst's
international-cosmopolitan, June 1936)
© 8May36; B299570. Joe D. Kinsey
& William L. Canady (E); 9May63;
R315566.
The place is Alaska, the business is
gold mining. (In Hearst's
international-cosmopolitan, Jan. 1936)
© 5Dec35; B283395. Joe D. Kinsey &
William L. Canady (E); 4Jan63;
R305563.
BEACH, REX E., ESTATE OF.
Alaska's flying frontiersmen. SEE
BEACH, REX E.
Fisherman's heaven. SEE BEACH,
REX E.
Kenworthy case. SEE BEACH, REX E.
Modern miracle men. SEE BEACH,
REX E.
The place is Alaska, the business is
gold mining. SEE BEACH, REX E.
BEAL, ELIZABETH V.
Games & stunts for all occasions.
SEE YOUNG, WILLIAM P.
BEARD, CHARLES A.
The discussion of human affairs.
© 16Jun36; A96021. William Beard
& Miriam B. Vagts (C); 27Jun63;
R317626.
The presidents in American history.
© 15Nov35; A89709. William Beard
& Miriam B. Vagts (C); 24May63;
R316348.
BEARD, MARY E. PENNELL.
The teaching of reading for better
living, by Mary E. Pennell & Alice
M. Cusack. © 2Jul35; A83871.
William S. Beard (Wr) & James D.
Milliken (E); 24Jun63; R317368.
BEARD, WILLIAM.
Create the wealth. © 6Apr36; A93674.
William Beard (A); 29Apr63; R314499.
The discussion of human affairs. SEE
BEARD, CHARLES A.
The presidents in American history.
SEE BEARD, CHARLES A.
BEARD, WILLIAM S.
The teaching of reading for better
living. SEE BEARD, MARY E. PENNELL.
BEAUCHAMP, WILBUR L.
Manual of directions for Tests on
everyday problems in biology. SEE
PIEPER, CHARLES J.
Manual of directions for Tests on
everyday problems in science. SEE
PIEPER, CHARLES J.
Science for children; a course of
study and teacher's guidebook for
science in the lower elementary
school. By Wilbur L. Beauchamp &
Joe Young West. © 10Dec35; AA191670.
Scott, Foresman & Co. (PWH); 10Jan63;
R308813.
Science stories. Book 2. By Wilbur
L. Beauchamp, Harriet M. Fogg,
Gertrude Crampton & William S. Gray.
© 22Mar35; A82140. Scott, Foresman
& Co. (PWH); 10Jan63; R308818.
A study-book in general science, by
Wilbur L. Beauchamp & Harold H.
Miller; to accompany Everyday problems
in science, by Pieper & Beauchamp.
© 12Aug35; AA181432. Scott,
Foresman & Co. (PWH); 10Jan63;
R308807.
BEAUJEAN, A. A.
The economics of inflation. SEE
WILLIS, H. PARKER.
BECKER, CARL L.
Modern history, the rise of a democratic,
scientific, and industrialized
civilization. © on p.viii, xi, xiii,
756, 763, 769-770, 781, 784, 826;
index (p.i-xxiv); 5Jul35; A84655.
Frederick Becker (C); 25Apr63;
R314297.
<pb id='018.png' />
BECKER, FREDERICK.
Modern history, the rise of a democratic,
scientific, and industrialized
civilization. SEE BECKER,
CARL L.
THE BEDROOM COMPANION; OR, A COLD
NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT. © 29Nov35;
A89729. Holt, Rinehart & Winston,
Inc. (PWH); 22May63; R316127.
BEEBE, WILLIAM.
Green mansions. SEE HUDSON, W. H.
BEEDING, FRANCIS, pseud.
The Norwich victims, by Francis Beeding,
pseud. of John Palmer & Hilary
Aldan St. George Saunders.
© 11Jul35, AI-20487; 26Sep35,
A86523. Joan W. St. George Saunders
(W) & Anthony Palmer (C); 6May63;
R315043.
BELL, ED.
Fish on the steeple. © 26Nov35;
A88601. Sara Bell McKneeley
(Mrs. R. D.) (W); 1Apr63; R313341.
BELL, HUGH M.
The theory and practice of student
counseling with special reference to
the adjustment inventory. © 7Nov35;
A89658. Hugh M. Bell (A); 18Feb63;
R310924.
BELLAH, JAMES WARNER.
The heart of Guinevere. (In Saturday
evening post, Dec. 14, 1935)
© 10Dec35; B283381. James Warner
Bellah (A); 8Feb63; R310372.
BELLAMANN, HENRY.
The gray man walks. © 17Apr36;
A93746. Arthur B. West (E);
22Apr63; R314216.
BELLAMANN, HENRY, ESTATE OF.
The gray man walks. SEE BELLAMANN,
HENRY.
BELLOC, HILAIRE.
Milton. © 8Mar35; A80972. Eleanor
Jebb (C); 15Feb63; R310845.
BEMELMANS, BARBARA.
The Count and the cobbler. SEE
BEMELMANS, LUDWIG.
BEMELMANS, LUDWIG.
The Count and the cobbler. (In
Harper's bazaar, Dec. 1935)
© 27Nov35; B281665. Madeleine
Bemelmans (W) & Barbara Bemelmans
(C); 8Jan63; R307674.
BEMELMANS, MADELEINE.
The Count and the cobbler. SEE
BEMELMANS, LUDWIG.
BEMENT, DOUGLAS.
Modern English writing. © 25Sep35;
A87300. Douglas Bement (A);
19Feb63; R310448.
BENET, JAMES.
This fond intention. SEE BENET,
WILLIAM ROSE.
BENET, STEPHEN VINCENT.
Burning city; new poems. © 4Jun36;
A94778. Thomas C. Benet, Rachel
B. Lewis & Stephanie Mahin (C);
18Jun63; R317262.
Girl child. (In Atlantic monthly,
Nov. 1935) © 17Oct35; B278313.
Thomas C. Benet, Rachel Benet
Lewis, Stephanie Benet Mahin (C);
17Jun63; R317304. (See also Benet,
S. V.; 24Oct62; R303419)
Litany for dictatorships. (In Atlantic
monthly, Sept. 1935) © 15Aug35;
B270937. Thomas C. Benet, Rachel
Benet Lewis & Stephanie Benet Mahin
(C); 17Jun63; R317303. (See also
Benet, S. V.; 24Oct62; R303415)
Nightmare number three. (In The New
Yorker, July 27, 1935) © 25Jul35;
B268705. Thomas C. Benet, Rachel
B. Lewis & Stephanie Mahin (C);
27May63; R316168.
<pb id='019.png' n='1963_h1/A/0925' />
Nineteen thirty-five. (In The New
Yorker, June 29, 1935) © 27Jun35;
B266355. Thomas C. Benet, Rachel
B. Lewis & Stephanie Mahin (C);
27May63; R316169.
Old man Hoppergrass. (In The New
Yorker, May 9, 1936) © 7May36;
B300160. Thomas C. Benet, Rachel
B. Lewis & Stephanie Mahin (C);
27May63; R316170.
BENET, THOMAS C.
Burning city. SEE BENET, STEPHEN
VINCENT.
Girl child. SEE BENET, STEPHEN
VINCENT.
Litany for dictatorships. SEE
BENET, STEPHEN VINCENT.
Nightmare number three. SEE BENET,
STEPHEN VINCENT.
Nineteen thirty-five. SEE BENET,
STEPHEN VINCENT.
Old man Hoppergrass. SEE BENET,
STEPHEN VINCENT.
BENET, WILLIAM ROSE.
This fond intention. (In Scribner's
magazine, Aug. 1935) © 26Jul35;
B269766. Rosemary Dawson, Kathleen
Fry & James Benet (C); 28Dec62;
R307538.
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
The bow of bright promise, by C. C.
Zain, pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.80, course 7-J)
© 14Nov35; AA192195. Maria M. Benjamine
(W); 15Feb63; R310620.
Cycles of Pluto and Neptune, by C. C.
Zain, pseud. (Mundane astrology,
serial no.142, course 13-B)
© 1May35; AA192203. Maria M. Benjamine
(W); 15Feb63; R310625.
Doctrine of mundane astrology, by
C. C. Zain, pseud. (Mundane
astrology, serial no.141, course
13-A) © 1May35; AA192204. Maria
M. Benjamine (W); 15Feb63; R310624.
The fountain of youth, by C. C. Zain,
pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.72, course 7-B)
© 14Nov35; AA192187. Maria M.
Benjamine (W); 15Feb63; R310612.
In the reign of Aquarius, by C. C.
Zain, pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.82, course 7-L)
© 14Nov35; AA192197. Maria M. Benjamine
(W); 15Feb63; R310622.
Is there a Santa Claus, by C. C.
Zain, pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.76, course 7-F)
© 14Nov35; AA192191. Maria M. Benjamine
(W); 15Feb63; R310616.
Knights of King Arthur, by C. C.
Zain, pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.73, course 7-C)
© 14Nov35; AA192188. Maria M.
Benjamine (W); 15Feb63; R310613.
The ladder to heaven, by C. C. Zain,
pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.75, course 7-E)
© 14Nov35; AA192190. Maria M. Benjamine
(W); 15Feb63; R310615.
The marriage in heaven, by C. C. Zain,
pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.78, course 7-H)
© 14Nov35; AA192193. Maria M. Benjamine
(W); 15Feb63; R310618.
News from the summerland, by C. C.
Zain, pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.81, course 7-K)
© 14Nov35; AA192196. Maria M. Benjamine
(W); 15Feb63; R310621.
Our spiritual legacy, by C. C. Zain,
pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.71, course 7-A)
© 14Nov35; AA192186. Maria M.
Benjamine (W); 15Feb63; R310611.
The scorpion and the eagle, by C. C.
Zain, pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.79, course 7-I)
© 14Nov35; AA192194. Maria M. Benjamine
(W); 15Feb63; R310619.
<pb id='020.png' />
Story of the three bears, by C. C.
Zain, pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no.74, course 7-D)
© 14Nov35; AA192198. Maria M.
Benjamine (W); 15Feb63; R310614.
The tree of life, by C. C. Zain,
pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no. 83, course 7-M)
© 14Nov35; AA192198. Maria M.
Benjamine (W); 15Feb63; R310623.
Why Eve was tempted, by C. C. Zain,
pseud. (Spiritual astrology,
serial no. 77, course 7-G)
© 14Nov35; AA192192. Maria M.
Benjamine (W); 15Feb63; R310617.
BENJAMINE, MARIA M.
The bow of bright promise. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
Cycles of Pluto and Neptune. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
Doctrine of mundane astrology. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
The fountain of youth. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
In the reign of Aquarius. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
Is there a Santa Claus. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
Knights of King Arthur. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
The ladder to heaven. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
The marriage in heaven. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
News from the summerland. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
Our spiritual legacy. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
The scorpion and the eagle. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
Story of the three bears. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
The tree of life. SEE BENJAMINE,
ELBERT.
Why Eve was tempted. SEE
BENJAMINE, ELBERT.
BENNETT, DOROTHY A.
Handbook of the heavens. SEE
BERNHARD, HUBERT J.
BENNETT, ESTELLINE.
Old Deadwood days. Pref. by Philip
Ashton Rollins. New ed. © 20Feb35;
A80643. Chemical Corn Exchange
(E of Estelline Bennett); 19Feb63;
R310914.
BENNETT, ESTELLINE, ESTATE OF.
Old Deadwood days. SEE BENNETT,
ESTELLINE.
BENNETT, HORACE WILSON.
Silver crown of glory. © 17Feb36;
A93163. Horace W. Bennett (A);
29Apr63; R314799.
BENNETT, JUANZTA.
Tarzan and the Tarzan twins with
Jad-Bal-Ja, the golden lion. SEE
BURROUGHS, EDGAR RICE.
BENNETT, M. E.
Problems of self-discovery and
self-direction, by M. E. Bennett &
H. C. Hand. © 2Jul35; A83898.
M. E. Bennett (A); 24Jun63; R317588.
BENNETT, ROBERT J. SEE
CUMULATIVE LOOSE LEAF BUSINESS
ENCYCLOPEDIA.
BENOIT, PIERRE.
La dame de l'ouest. © 6Apr36;
AF31871. Robert Esmenard (E);
3May63; R315047.
BENOIT, PIERRE, ESTATE OF.
La dame de l'ouest. SEE BENOIT,
PIERRE.
BENSON, CLARENCE H., comp.
A guide for Bible study. Unit 1:
Old Testament law and history.
© 31Dec35; A540926. Mrs. Clarence
H. Benson (W); 20Feb63; R310863.
<pb id='021.png' />
A guide for child study. Unit 4.
Abridged from An introduction to
child study. © on editorial revision
& additional text content;
31Dec35; A540928. Mrs. Clarence H.
Benson (W); 20Feb63; R310865.
A guide for pedagogy. Unit 5.
© 31Dec35; A540929. Mrs. Clarence
H. Benson (W); 20Feb63; R310866.
A guide for Sunday school work.
Unit 6. Abridged from The Sunday
school in action. © on editorial
revisions & additional text content;
31Dec35; A540927. Mrs.
Clarence H. Benson (W); 20Feb63;
R310864.
BENSON, MRS. CLARENCE H.
A guide for Bible study. SEE
BENSON, CLARENCE H., comp.
A guide for child study. SEE
BENSON, CLARENCE H., comp.
A guide for pedagogy. SEE BENSON,
CLARENCE H., comp.
A guide for Sunday school work. SEE
BENSON, CLARENCE H., comp.
BENSON, GEORGE CHARLES SUMNER.
The administration of the civil
service in Massachusetts; with
special reference to State control
of city civil service. (Harvard
political studies) © 29Nov35;
A90312. George Charles Sumner
Benson (A); 6Mar63; R311972.
BENTLEY, ARTHUR F.
Behavior, knowledge, fact. © 4Nov35;
A89271. Imogene S. Bentley (W);
16Jan63; R308618.
BENTLEY, GERALD E.
The play's the thing. SEE MILLETT,
FRED B.
BENTLEY, IMOGENE S.
Behavior, knowledge, fact. SEE
BENTLEY, ARTHUR F.
BENZIGER BROS., INC.
Bible history. SEE GILMOUR,
RICHARD, BP.
Guide book accompanying Learning my
religion, books 1 and 2. SEE
SCHUMACHER, M. A.
Hints and outlines for the study of
church history. SEE LAUX, JOHN.
Self conquest. SEE LASANCE, F. X.,
ed.
BERGE, H. VON.
SEE VON BERGE, H.
BERMAN, MORRIS.
Greenwich Village poetry anthology,
compiled by Martin Bernfeld, pseud.
© 24Dec35; AA215791. Morris Berman
(Martin Bernfeld) (A); 10Jun63;
R316900.
BERNANOS, GEORGES.
Le journal d'un cure de campagne.
© 25Mar36; AF32313. Louis Dulong
(E); 21Jun63; R317284.
BERNANOS, GEORGES, ESTATE OF.
Le Journal d'un cure de campagne.
SEE BERNANOS, GEORGES.
BERNATZIK, HUGO ADOLF.
South seas. (Pub. abroad as Sudsee)
Translation by Vivian Ogilvie.
© 9Dec35; A90141. Holt, Rinehart &
Winston, Inc. (PWH); 1Apr63;
R313349.
BERNFELD, MARTIN, pseud.
SEE BERMAN, MORRIS.
BERNHARD, HUBERT J.
Handbook of the heavens. Editors:
Hubert J. Bernhard, Dorothy A.
Bennett & Hugh S. Rice. With a foreword
by Harlow Shapley. © 14Oct35;
A86833. Hubert J. Bernhard,
Dorothy A. Bennett & Hugh S. Rice
(A); 6May63; R315298.
<pb id='022.png' n='1963_h1/A/0926' />
BERNHARDT, ALEXANDER.
Ephesus. SEE MANZ, IRENE.
Lao-Tse. SEE TROELTSCH,
CHARLOTTE VON.
Verwehte Zeit erwacht. SEE
TROELTSCH, CHARLOTTE VON.
BESOBRASOW, ELIZABETH C.
Democratic governments in Europe.
SEE BUELL, RAYMOND LESLIE, ed.
BESSEY, MABEL A.
Reading for understanding, by
Mabel A. Bessey & Isabelle P.
Coffin. © 21Feb36; A91887.
Monica D. Ryan (E) & Isabelle P.
Coffin (A); 19Jun63; R317334.
BESSEY, MABEL A., ESTATE OF.
Reading for understanding. SEE
BESSEY, MABEL A.
BESSIE, ALVAH C.
Dwell in the wilderness. © 20Aug35;
A86109. Alvah C. Bessie (A);
3Jan63; R307575.
BETHEA, F. D.
Miracle series of modern music; a
short course in modern harmony for
the beginner or the professional.
Piano 1-12. By F. D. Bethea &
C. C. Halfhill. © 1Sep35; AA202539.
F. D. Bethea (A); 20May63; R315844.
BEVERIDGE, JOHN HARRIE.
English for use; teachers manual.
Book 1-2. By John H. Beveridge,
Belle M. Ryan & William D. Lewis.
Author of renewable matter: William
D. Lewis. 2 v. © on revisions &
additions; 29Nov35; A90198-90199.
Holt, Rinehart & Winston, Inc. (PWH);
14Mar63; R312280-512281.
BIANCO, MARGERY W.
Sidsel Longskirt and Solve Suntrap.
SEE AANRUD, HANS.
BIBLE, N.T.
The Acts of the Apostles. SEE
MEARS, HENRIETTA C.
BIBLE. O.T. SEE
THE SONG OF SONGS WHICH IS SOLOMON'S.
BICHOWSKY, F. RUSSELL.
Is the Navy ready? © 28Jun35; A84549.
Vanguard Press, Inc. (PWH); 3Jan63;
R307580.
BIDDLE, DOROTHY.
Garden gossip, chronicles of Sycamore
Valley. By Dorothy Biddle &
Dorothea Blom. © 6Mar36; A92299.
Dorothy Biddle & Dorothea Blom (A);
7Mar63; R311919.
BIERS, CLARENCE.
The five little bears. SEE
NORTH, STERLING.
BILLINGER, KARL, pseud.
SEE MASSING, HEDWIG GUMPERTZ.
BINKLEY, ROBERT C.
Realism and nationalism, 1852-1871.
Edited by William L. Langer.
© 12Dec35; A88668. Thomas E.
Binkley & Robert W. Binkley (C);
4Feb63; R309631.
BINKLEY, ROBERT W.
Realism and nationalism, 1852-1871.
SEE BINKLEY, ROBERT C.
BINKLEY, THOMAS E.
Realism and nationalism, 1852-1871.
SEE BINKLEY, ROBERT C.
BIRGE, EDWARD BAILEY. SEE
THE MUSIC HOUR.
BISEL (GEORGE T.) CO. SEE
PURDON'S PENNSYLVANIA STATUTES.
PURDON'S PENNSYLVANIA STATUTES,
ANNOTATED, PERMANENT EDITION.
BISHOP, JOHN, VI, executor of the
Estate of George Howard Bruce. SEE
BRUCE, GEORGE HOWARD, ESTATE OF.
<pb id='023.png' />
BISHOP, JOHN PEALE.
Act of darkness. © 5Mar35; A82126.
Margaret G. H. Bronson (W); 21Feb63;
R310912.
BISMARCK, GOEDELA, GRAFIN.
SEE KEYSERLING, GOEDELA BISMARCK DE.
BIXLER, HAROLD H.
Literature appreciation tests: Macbeth
and scoring key. SEE WRINN,
MARY J. J.
Literature appreciation tests: The
house of the seven gables and
scoring key. SEE ROBERTS,
HOLLAND D.
Literature appreciation tests: The
merchant of Venice and scoring key.
SEE SMITH, ELMER R.
Literature appreciation tests:
Treasure Island and scoring key.
SEE COOK, LUELLA B.
BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON.
The fruit stoners, being the
adventures of Maria among the fruit
stoners. © 24Apr35; A81568.
Patrick Stevenson Blackwood (NK);
4Apr63; R313909.
BLACKWOOD, PATRICK STEVENSON.
The fruit stoners. SEE BLACKWOOD,
ALGERNON.
BLAKE, ARTHUR M.
There's always tomorrow. SEE BLAKE,
MARGUERITE HARRISON.
BLAKE, FORRESTER A.
Riding the mustang trail. © 29Mar35;
A81268. Forrester A. Blake (A);
6Mar63; R312087.
BLAKE, MARGUERITE HARRISON.
There's always tomorrow, by Marguerite
Harrison. © 10Oct35; A87644.
Arthur M. Blake (Wr); 1Apr63;
R313339.
BLAKER, AGNES MAYO.
Here lies a most beautiful lady. SEE
BLAKER, RICHARD.
BLAKER, RICHARD.
Here lies a most beautiful lady.
© 26Feb36; A92023. Agnes Mayo
Blaker (W); 21Mar63; R314159.
BLAKEY, GLADYS C.
Fees and other non-tax revenues of
Minnesota local units. SEE BORAK,
ARTHUR M.
BLAND, JAMES R.
Plane and spherical trigonometry,
with tables. SEE KELLS, LYMAN M.
BLASHFIEID, DE WITT CLINTON.
Cyclopedia of automobile law and
practice. Vol. 11-14. Permanent
ed., with forms. © on additions &
revisions; 11Jan36, A90827-90828;
12Mar36, A94051-94052. Vernon Law
Book Co. & West Pub. Co. (PWH);
28May63; R316225-316227, 316224.
BLINN, ETHEL HUESTON.
The man of the storm, by Ethel Hueston.
© 11Mar36; A93191. Ethel Hueston
Blinn (A); 21Mar63; R314162.
BLOCH, ROBERT.
The druidic doom. (In Weird tales,
Apr. 1, 1936) © 1Apr36; B323454.
Robert Bloch (A); 20May63; R316005.
The faceless god. (In Weird tales,
May 1, 1936) © 1May36; B323455.
Robert Bloch (A); 20May63; R316006.
BLOM, DOROTHEA.
Garden gossip, chronicles of Sycamore
Valley. SEE BIDDLE, DOROTHY.
BLOOM, RUBE.
Guide to modern piano playing.
© 4May36; AA204044. Rube Bloom (A);
6May63; R315338.
<pb id='024.png' />
BLOSSOM, FREDERICK A.
Duo. SEE JOUVENEL, MME GABRIELLE
CLAUDINE (COLETTE) DE.
BLUM, LEON.
Souvenirs sur l'affaire. © 1Dec35;
AF30538. Robert Blum (C); 21Jan63;
R309214.
BLUM, ROBERT.
Souvenirs sur l'affaire
|
all right, doesn't he?" he observed dispassionately.
"If it had been my governor--" began Jack slowly.
"My dear man, it isn't your governor; it's mine. And I'm dashed if
there's another man in the world who'd write such a letter as that
nowadays. It's--it's too early-Victorian. They'd hardly stand it at the
Adelphi! I could have put it so much better myself.... Poor old
governor!"
"Have you answered it?"
"I... I forget. I know I meant to.... No, I haven't. I remember now.
And I shan't till I'm just off."
"Well, I shall," remarked Jack.
Frank turned a swift face upon him.
"If you do," he said, with sudden fierce gravity, "I'll never speak to
you again. I mean it. It's my affair, and I shall run it my own way."
"But--"
"I mean it. Now! give me your word of honor--"
"I--"
"Your word of honor, this instant, or get out of my room!"
There was a pause. Then:
"All right," said Jack.
Then there fell a silence once more.
(II)
The news began to be rumored about, soon after the auction that Frank
held of his effects a couple of days later. He carried out the scene
admirably, entirely unassisted, even by Jack.
First, there appeared suddenly all over Cambridge, the evening before
the sale, just as the crowds of undergraduates and female relations
began to circulate about after tea and iced strawberries, a quantity of
sandwich-men, bearing the following announcement, back and front:
TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
THE HON. FRANK GUISELEY
has pleasure in announcing that on
JUNE 7TH (Saturday)
at half-past ten a.m. precisely
in Rooms 1, Letter J, Great Court, Trinity College,
he will positively offer for
SALE BY AUCTION
_The household effects, furniture, books, etc., of
the Hon. Frank Guiseley, including_--
A piano by Broadwood (slightly out of tune); a magnificent suite of
drawing-room furniture, upholstered in damask, the sofa only slightly
stained with tea; one oak table and another; a bed; a chest of drawers
(imitation walnut, and not a very good imitation); a mahogany
glass-fronted bookcase, containing a set of suggestive-looking volumes
bound in faint colors, with white labels; four oriental mats; a portrait
of a gentleman (warranted a perfectly respectable ancestor); dining-room
suite (odd chairs); numerous engravings of places of interest and
noblemen's seats; a
_Silver Cigarette-box and fifteen Cigarettes in it (Melachrino and Mixed
American_); a cuckoo-clock (without cuckoo); five walking-sticks;
numerous suits of clothes (one lot suitable for Charitable Purposes);
some books--all VERY CURIOUS indeed--comprising the works of an
Eminent Cambridge Professor, and other scholastic luminaries, as well as
many other articles.
AT HALF-PAST TEN A.M. PRECISELY
All friends, and strangers, cordially invited.
NO RESERVE PRICE.
It served its purpose admirably, for by soon after ten o'clock quite a
considerable crowd had begun to assemble; and it was only after a very
serious conversation with the Dean that the sale was allowed to proceed.
But it proceeded, with the distinct understanding that a college porter
be present; that no riotous behavior should be allowed; that the sale
was a genuine one, and that Mr. Guiseley would call upon the Dean with
further explanations before leaving Cambridge.
The scene itself was most impressive.
Frank, in a structure resembling an auctioneer's box, erected on the
hearth-rug, presided, with extraordinary gravity, hammer in hand, robed
in a bachelor's gown and hood. Beneath him the room seethed with the
company, male and female, all in an excellent humor, and quite tolerable
prices were obtained. No public explanations were given of the need for
the sale, and Jack, in the deepest dismay, looked in again that
afternoon, about lunch-time, to find the room completely stripped, and
Frank, very cheerful, still in his hood and gown, smoking a cigarette in
the window-seat.
"Come in," he said. "And kindly ask me to lunch. The last porter's just
gone."
Jack looked at him.
He seemed amazingly genial and natural, though just a little flushed,
and such an air of drama as there was about him was obviously
deliberate.
"Very well; come to lunch," said Jack. "Where are you going to dine and
sleep?"
"I'm dining in hall, and I'm sleeping in a hammock. Go and look at my
bedroom."
Jack went across the bare floor and looked in. A hammock was slung
across from a couple of pegs, and there lay a small carpet-bag beneath
it. A basin on an upturned box and a bath completed the furniture.
"You mad ass!" said Jack. "And is that all you have left?"
"Certainly. I'm going to leave the clothes I've got on to you, and you
can fetch the hammock when I've gone."
"When do you start?"
"Mr. Guiseley will have his last interview and obtain his _exeat_ from
the Dean at half-past six this evening. He proposes to leave Cambridge
in the early hours of to-morrow morning."
"You don't mean that!"
"Certainly I do."
"What are you going to wear?"
Frank extended two flanneled legs, ending in solid boots.
"These--a flannel shirt, no tie, a cap, a gray jacket."
Jack stood again in silence, looking at him.
"How much money did your sale make?"
"That's immaterial. Besides, I forget. The important fact is that when
I've paid all my bills I shall have thirteen pounds eleven shillings and
eightpence."
"What?"
"Thirteen pounds eleven shillings and eightpence."
Jack burst into a mirthless laugh.
"Well, come along to lunch," he said.
* * * * *
It seemed to Jack that he moved in a dreary kind of dream that afternoon
as he went about with Frank from shop to shop, paying bills. Frank's
trouser-pockets bulged and jingled a good deal as they started--he had
drawn all his remaining money in gold from the bank--and they bulged
and jingled considerably less as the two returned to tea in Jesus Lane.
There, on the table, he spread out the coins. He had bought some
tobacco, and two or three other things that afternoon, and the total
amounted now but to twelve pounds nineteen shillings and fourpence.
"Call it thirteen pounds," said Frank. "There's many a poor man--"
"Don't be a damned fool!" said Jack.
"I'm being simply prudent," said Frank. "A contented heart--"
Jack thrust a cup of tea and the buttered buns before him.
* * * * *
These two were as nearly brothers as possible, in everything but blood.
Their homes lay within ten miles of one another. They had gone to a
private school together, to Eton, and to Trinity. They had ridden
together in the holidays, shot, dawdled, bathed, skated, and all the
rest. They were considerably more brothers to one another than were
Frank and Archie, his actual elder brother, known to the world as
Viscount Merefield. Jack did not particularly approve of Archie; he
thought him a pompous ass, and occasionally said so.
For Frank he had quite an extraordinary affection, though he would not
have expressed it so, to himself, for all the world, and a very real
admiration of a quite indefinable kind. It was impossible to say why he
admired him. Frank did nothing very well, but everything rather well; he
played Rugby football just not well enough to represent his college; he
had been in the Lower Boats at Eton, and the Lent Boat of his first year
at Cambridge; then he had given up rowing and played lawn-tennis in the
summer and fives in the Lent Term just well enough to make a brisk and
interesting game. He was not at all learned; he had reached the First
Hundred at Eton, and had read Law at Cambridge--that convenient branch
of study which for the most part fills the vacuum for intelligent
persons who have no particular bent and are heartily sick of classics;
and he had taken a Third Class and his degree a day or two before. He
was remarkably averaged, therefore; and yet, somehow or another, there
was that in him which compelled Jack's admiration. I suppose it was that
which is conveniently labeled "character." Certainly, nearly everybody
who came into contact with him felt the same in some degree.
His becoming a Catholic had been an amazing shock to Jack, who had
always supposed that Frank, like himself, took the ordinary sensible
English view of religion. To be a professed unbeliever was bad form--it
was like being a Little Englander or a Radical; to be pious was equally
bad form--it resembled a violent devotion to the Union Jack. No;
religion to Jack (and he had always hitherto supposed, to Frank) was a
department of life in which one did not express any particular views:
one did not say one's prayers; one attended chapel at the proper times;
if one was musical, one occasionally went to King's on Sunday afternoon;
in the country one went to church on Sunday morning as one went to the
stables in the afternoon, and that was about all.
Frank had been, too, so extremely secretive about the whole thing. He
had marched into Jack's rooms in Jesus Lane one morning nearly a
fortnight ago.
"Come to mass at the Catholic Church," he said.
"Why, the--" began Jack.
"I've got to go. I'm a Catholic."
"_What!_"
"I became one last week."
Jack had stared at him, suddenly convinced that someone was mad. When he
had verified that it was really a fact; that Frank had placed himself
under instruction three months before, and had made his confession--(his
confession!)--on Friday, and had been conditionally baptized; when he
had certified himself of all these things, and had begun to find
coherent language once more, he had demanded why Frank had done this.
"Because it's the true religion," said Frank. "Are you coming to mass or
are you not?"
Jack had gone then, and had come away more bewildered than ever as to
what it was all about. He had attempted to make a few inquiries, but
Frank had waved his hands at him, and repeated that obviously the
Catholic religion was the true one, and that he couldn't be bothered.
And now here they were at tea in Jesus Lane for the last time.
* * * * *
Of course, there was a little suppressed excitement about Frank. He
drank three cups of tea and took the last (and the under) piece of
buttered bun without apologies, and he talked a good deal, rather fast.
It seemed that he had really no particular plans as to what he was going
to do after he had walked out of Cambridge with his carpet-bag early
next morning. He just meant, he said, to go along and see what happened.
He had had a belt made, which pleased him exceedingly, into which his
money could be put (it lay on the table between them during tea), and he
proposed, naturally, to spend as little of that money as possible....
No; he would not take one penny piece from Jack; it would be simply
scandalous if he--a public-school boy and an University man--couldn't
keep body and soul together by his own labor. There would be hay-making
presently, he supposed, and fruit-picking, and small jobs on farms. He
would just go along and see what happened. Besides there were always
casual wards, weren't there? if the worst came to the worst; and he'd
meet other men, he supposed, who'd put him in the way of things. Oh!
he'd get on all right.
Would he ever come to Barham? Well, if it came in the day's work he
would. Yes: certainly he'd be most obliged if his letters might be sent
there, and he could write for them when he wanted, or even call for
them, if, as he said, it came in the day's work.
What was he going to do in the winter? He hadn't the slightest idea. He
supposed, what other people did in the winter. Perhaps he'd have got a
place by then--gamekeeper, perhaps--he'd like to be a gamekeeper.
At this Jack, mentally, threw up the sponge.
"You really mean to go on at this rotten idea of yours?"
Frank opened his eyes wide.
"Why, of course. Good Lord! did you think I was bluffing?"
"But... but it's perfectly mad. Why on earth don't you get a proper
situation somewhere--land-agent or something?"
"My dear man," said Frank, "if you will have it, it's because I want to
do exactly what I'm going to do. No--I'm being perfectly serious. I've
thought for ages that we're all wrong somehow. We're all so beastly
artificial. I don't want to preach, but I want to test things for
myself. My religion tells me--" He broke off. "No; this is fooling. I'm
going to do it because I'm going to do it. And I'm really going to do
it. I'm not going to be an amateur--like slumming. I'm going to find out
things for myself."
"But on the roads--" expostulated Jack.
"Exactly. That's the very point. Back to the land."
Jack sat up.
"Good Lord!" he said. "Why, I never thought of it."
"What?"
"It's your old grandmother coming out."
Frank stared.
"Grandmother?"
"Yes--old Mrs. Kelly."
Frank laughed suddenly and loudly.
"By George!" he said, "I daresay it is. Old Grandmamma Kelly! She was a
gipsy--so she was. I believe you've hit it, Jack. Let's see: she was my
grandfather's second wife, wasn't she?"
Jack nodded.
"And he picked her up off the roads on his own estate. Wasn't she
trespassing, or something?"
Jack nodded again.
"Yes," he said, "and he was a magistrate and ought to have committed
her: And he married her instead. She was a girl, traveling with her
parents."
Frank sat smiling genially.
"That's it," he said. "Then I'm bound to make a success of it."
And he took another cigarette.
Then one more thought came to Jack: he had determined already to make
use of it if necessary, and somehow this seemed to be the moment.
"And Jenny Launton," he said "I suppose you've thought of her?"
A curious look came into Frank's eyes--a look of great gravity and
tenderness--and the humor died out. He said nothing for an instant. Then
he drew out of his breast-pocket a letter in an envelope, and tossed it
gently over to Jack.
"I'm telling her in that," he said. "I'm going to post it to-night,
after I've seen the Dean."
Jack glanced down at it.
"MISS LAUNTON,
"The Rectory,
"Merefield, Yorks."
ran the inscription. He turned it over; it was fastened and sealed.
"I've told her we must wait a bit," said Frank, "and that I'll write
again in a few weeks."
Jack was silent.
"And you think it's fair on her?" he asked deliberately.
Frank's face broke up into humor.
"That's for her to say," he observed. "And, to tell the truth, I'm not
at all afraid."
"But a gamekeeper's wife! And you a Catholic!"
"Ah! you don't know Jenny," smiled Frank. "Jenny and I quite understand
one another, thank you very much."
"But is it quite fair?"
"Good Lord!" shouted Frank, suddenly roused. "Fair! What the devil does
it matter? Don't you know that all's fair--under certain circumstances?
I do bar that rotten conventionalism. We're all rotten--rotten, I tell
you; and I'm going to start fresh. So's Jenny. Kindly don't talk of what
you don't understand."
He stood up, stretching. Then he threw the end of his cigarette away.
"I must go to the Dean," he said. "It's close on the half-hour."
(III)
The Reverend James Mackintosh was an excellent official of his college,
and performed his duties with care and punctilium. He rose about
half-past seven o'clock every morning, drank a cup of tea and went to
chapel. After chapel he breakfasted, on Tuesdays and Thursdays with two
undergraduates in their first year, selected in alphabetical order,
seated at his table; on the other days of the week in solitude. At ten
o'clock he lectured, usually on one of St. Paul's Epistles, on which
subjects he possessed note-books filled with every conceivable piece of
information that could be gathered together--grammatical, philological,
topographical, industrial, social, biographical--with a few remarks on
the fauna, flora, imports, characteristics and geological features of
those countries to which those epistles were written, and in which they
were composed. These notes, guaranteed to guide any student who really
mastered them to success, and even distinction, in his examinations,
were the result of a lifetime of loving labor, and some day, no doubt,
will be issued in the neat blue covers of the "Cambridge Bible for
Schools." From eleven to twelve he lectured on Church history of the
first five centuries--after which period, it will be remembered by all
historical students, Church history practically ceased. At one he
lunched; from two to four he walked rapidly (sometimes again in company
with a serious theological student), along the course known as the
Grantchester Grind, or to Coton and back. At four he had tea; at five he
settled down to administer discipline to the college, by summoning and
remonstrating with such undergraduates as had failed to comply with the
various regulations; at half-past seven he dined in hall--a meek figure,
clean shaven and spectacled, seated between an infidel philosopher and a
socialist: he drank a single glass of wine afterwards in the Combination
Room, smoked one cigarette, and retired again to his rooms to write
letters to parents (if necessary), and to run over his notes for next
day.
And he did this, with the usual mild variations of a University life,
every weekday, for two-thirds of the year. Of the other third, he spent
part in Switzerland, dressed in a neat gray Norfolk suit with
knickerbockers, and the rest with clerical friends of the scholastic
type. It was a very solemn thought to him how great were his
responsibilities, and what a privilege it was to live in the whirl and
stir of one of the intellectual centers of England!
* * * * *
Frank Guiseley was to Mr. Mackintosh a very great puzzle. He had
certainly been insubordinate in his first year (Mr. Mackintosh gravely
suspected him of the Bread-and-Butter affair, which had so annoyed his
colleague), but he certainly had been very steady and even deferential
ever since. (He always took off his hat, for example, to Mr. Mackintosh,
with great politeness.) Certainly he was not very regular at chapel, and
he did not dine in hall nearly so often as Mr. Mackintosh would have
wished (for was it not part of the University idea that men of all
grades of society should meet as equals under the college roof?). But,
then, he had never been summoned for any very grave or disgraceful
breach of the rules, and was never insolent or offensive to any of the
Fellows. Finally, he came of a very distinguished family; and Mr.
Mackintosh had the keenest remembrance still of his own single
interview, three years ago, with the Earl of Talgarth.
Mr. Mackintosh wondered, then, exactly what he would have to say to Mr.
Guiseley, and what Mr. Guiseley would have to say to him. He thought,
if the young man were really going down for good, as he had understood
this morning, it was only his plain duty to say a few tactful words
about responsibility and steadiness. That ridiculous auction would serve
as his text.
* * * * *
Mr. Mackintosh paused an instant, as he always did, before saying "Come
in!" to the knock on the door (I think he thought it helped to create a
little impression of importance). Then he said it; and Frank walked in.
"Good evening, Mr. Guiseley.... Yes; please sit down. I understood from
you this morning that you wished for your _exeat_."
"Please," said Frank.
"Just so," said Mr. Mackintosh, drawing the _exeat_ book--resembling the
butt of a check-book--towards him. "And you are going down to-morrow?"
"Yes," said Frank.
"Going home?" murmured the Dean, inscribing Frank's name in his neat
little handwriting.
"No," said Frank.
"Not?... To London, perhaps?"
"Well, not exactly," said Frank; "at least, not just yet."
Mr. Mackintosh blotted the book carefully, and extracted the _exeat_.
He pushed it gently towards Frank.
"About that auction!" he said, smiling indulgently; "I did want to have
a word with you about that. It was very unusual; and I wondered.... But
I am happy to think that there was no disturbance.... But can you tell
me exactly why you chose that form of... of..."
"I wanted to make as much money as ever I could," said Frank.
"Indeed!... Yes.... And... and you were successful?"
"I cleared all my debts, anyhow," said Frank serenely. "I thought that
very important."
Mr. Mackintosh smiled again. Certainly this young man was very well
behaved and deferential.
"Well, that's satisfactory. And you are going to read at the Bar now? If
you will let me say so, Mr. Guiseley, even at this late hour, I must say
that I think that a Third Class might have been bettered. But no doubt
your tutor has said all that?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, then, a little more application and energy now may perhaps make
up for lost time. I suppose you will go to the Temple in October?"
Frank looked at him pensively a moment.
"No, Mr. Mackintosh," he said suddenly; "I'm going on the roads. I mean
it, quite seriously. My father's disowned me. I'm starting out to-morrow
to make my own living."
There was dead silence for an instant. The Dean's face was stricken, as
though by horror. Yet Frank saw he had not in the least taken it in.
"Yes; that's really so," he said. "Please don't argue with me about it.
I'm perfectly determined."
"Your father... Lord Talgarth... the roads... your own living... the
college authorities... responsibility!"
Words of this sort burst from Mr. Mackintosh's mouth.
"Yes... it's because I've become a Catholic! I expect you've heard
that, sir."
Mr. Mackintosh threw himself back (if so fierce a word may be used of so
mild a manner)--threw himself back in his chair.
"Mr. Guiseley, kindly tell me all about it. I had not heard one
word--not one word."
* * * * *
Frank made a great effort, and told the story, quite fairly and quite
politely. He described his convictions as well as he could, the various
steps he had taken, and the climax of the letter from his father. Then
he braced himself, to hear what would be said; or, rather, he retired
within himself, and, so to speak, shut the door and pulled down the
blinds.
It was all said exactly as he knew it would be. Mr. Mackintosh touched
upon a loving father's impatience, the son's youth and impetuosity, the
shock to an ancient family, the responsibilities of membership in that
family, the dangers of rash decisions, and, finally, the obvious errors
of the Church of Rome. He began several sentences with the phrase: "No
thinking man at the present day..."
In fact, Mr. Mackintosh was, so soon as he had recovered from the first
shock, extraordinarily sensible and reasonable. He said all the proper
things, all the sensible and reasonable and common-sense things, and he
said them, not offensively or contemptuously, but tactfully and
persuasively. And he put into it the whole of his personality, such as
it was. He even quoted St. Paul.
He perspired a little, gently, towards the end: so he took off his
glasses and wiped them, looking, still with a smile, through kind,
short-sighted eyes, at this young man who sat so still. For Frank was so
quiet that the Dean thought him already half persuaded. Then once more
he summed up, when his glasses were fixed again; he ran through his
arguments lightly and efficiently, and ended by a quiet little
assumption that Frank was going to be reasonable, to write to his father
once more, and to wait at least a week. He even called him "my dear
boy!"
"Thanks very much," said Frank.
"Then you'll think it over quietly, my dear boy. Come and talk to me
again. I've given you your _exeat_, but you needn't use it. Come in
to-morrow evening after hall."
Frank stood up.
"Thanks, very much, Mr. Mackintosh. I'll... I'll certainly remember
what you've said." He took up his _exeat_ as if mechanically.
"Then you can leave that for the present," smiled the Dean, pointing at
it. "I can write you another, you know."
Frank put it down quickly.
"Oh, certainly!" he said.
"Well, good-night, Mr. Guiseley.... I... I can't tell you how glad I am
that you confided in me. Young men are a little unwise and impetuous
sometimes, you know. Good-night... good-night. I shall expect you
to-morrow."
When Frank reached the court below he stood waiting a moment. Then a
large smile broke out on his face, and he hurried across to a passage
opposite, found a friend's door open, and rushed in. The room was empty.
He flew across to the window and crouched down, peeping over the sill at
the opening on the other side of the court leading to Mr. Mackintosh's
staircase.
He was rewarded almost instantly. Even as he settled himself on the
window seat a black figure, with gown ballooning behind, hurried out and
whisked through the archway leading towards the street. He gave him
twenty seconds, and then ran out himself, and went in pursuit. Half-way
up the lane he sighted him once more, and, following cautiously on
tiptoe, with a handkerchief up to his face, was in time to behold Mr.
Mackintosh disappear into the little telegraph office on the left of
Trinity Street.
"That settles it, then," observed Frank, almost aloud. "Poor Jack--I'm
afraid I shan't be able to breakfast with him after all!"
(IV)
It was a little after four o'clock on the following morning that a
policeman, pacing with slow, flat feet along the little lane that leads
from Trinity Hall to Trinity College, yawning as he went, and entirely
unconscious of the divine morning air, bright as wine and clear as
water, beheld a remarkable spectacle.
There first appeared, suddenly tossed on to the spikes that top the gate
that guards the hostel, a species of pad that hung over on both sides of
the formidable array of points. Upon this, more cautiously, was placed
by invisible hands a very old saddle without any stirrups.
The policeman stepped back a little, and flattened
himself--comparatively speaking--against the outer wall of the hostel
itself. There followed a silence.
Suddenly, without any warning, a heavy body, discernible a moment later
as a small carpet-bag, filled to bursting, fell abruptly on to the
pavement; and, again, a moment later, two capable-looking hands made
their appearance, grasping with extreme care the central rod on which
the spikes were supposed to revolve, on either side of the saddle.
Still the policeman did not make any sign; he only sidled a step or two
nearer and stood waiting.
When he looked up again, a young gentleman, in flannel trousers, gray
jacket, boots, and an old deerstalker, was seated astride of the saddle,
with his back to the observer. There was a pause while the rider looked
to this side and that; and then, with a sudden movement, he had dropped
clear of the wall, and come down on feet and hands to the pavement.
"Good morning, officer!" said the young gentleman, rising and dusting
his hands, "it's all right. Like to see my _exeat_? Or perhaps half a
crown--"
(V)
About six o'clock in the morning, Jack Kirkby awoke suddenly in his
bedroom in Jesus Lane.
This was very unusual, and he wondered what it was all about. He thought
of Frank almost instantly, with a jerk, and after looking at his watch,
very properly turned over and tried to go to sleep again. But the
attempt was useless; there were far too many things to think about; and
he framed so many speeches to be delivered with convincing force at
breakfast to his misguided friend, that by seven o'clock he made up his
mind that he would get up, go and take Frank to bathe, and have
breakfast with him at half-past eight instead of nine. He would have
longer time, too, for his speeches. He got out of bed and pulled up his
blind, and the sight of the towers of Sidney Sussex College, gilded with
sunshine, determined him finally.
When you go to bathe before breakfast at Cambridge you naturally put on
as few clothes as possible and do not--even if you do so at other
times--say your prayers. So Jack put on a sweater, trousers, socks,
canvas shoes, and a blazer, and went immediately down the
oilcloth-covered stairs. As he undid the door he noticed a white thing
lying beneath it, and took it up. It was a note addressed to himself in
Frank's handwriting; and there, standing on the steps, he read it
through; and his heart turned suddenly sick.
* * * * *
There is all the difference in the world between knowing that a
catastrophe is going to happen, and knowing that it has happened. Jack
knew--at least, with all his reasonable part--that Frank was going to
leave Cambridge in the preposterous manner described, after breakfast
with himself; and it was partly because of this very knowledge that he
had got up earlier in order to have an extra hour with Frank before the
final severance came. Yet there was something in him--the same thing
that had urged him to rehearse little speeches in bed just now--that
told him that until it had actually happened, it had not happened, and,
just conceivably, might not happen after all. And he had had no idea how
strong this hopeful strain had been in him--nor, for that matter, how
very deeply and almost romantically he was attached to Frank--until he
felt his throat hammering and his head becoming stupid, as he read the
terse little note in the fresh morning air of Jesus Lane.
It ran as follows:
"DEAR JACK,
"It's no good, and I'm off early! That ass Mackintosh went and
wired to my people directly I left him. I tracked him down. And
there'll be the devil to pay unless I clear out. So I can't
come to breakfast. Sorry.
"Yours,
"F.G.
"P.S.--By the way, you might as well go round to the little man
and try to keep him quiet. Tell him it'll make a scandal for
Trinity College, Cambridge, if he makes a fuss. That'll stop
him, perhaps. And you might try to rescue my saddle from the
porter. He's probably got it by now."
Three minutes later a figure in a sweater, gray trousers, canvas shoes,
Third Trinity blazer and no cap, stood, very inarticulate with
breathlessness, at the door of the Senior Dean's rooms, demanding of a
scandalized bed-maker to see the official in question.
"'E's in his barth, sir!" expostulated the old woman.
"Then he must come out of it!" panted Jack.
"--That is, if 'e's out o' bed."
"Then he can stop in it, if he isn't.... I tell you--"
Jack gave up arguing. He took the old lady firmly by the shoulders, and
placed her in the doorway of the audience-room; then he was up the inner
stairs in three strides, through the sitting-room, and was tapping at
the door of the bedroom. A faint sound of splashing ceased.
"Who's there? Don't--"
"It's me, sir--Kirkby! I'm sorry to disturb you, but--"
"Don't come in!" cried an agitated voice, with a renewed sound of water,
as if someone had hastily scrambled out of the bath.
Jack cautiously turned the handle and opened the door a crack. A cry of
dismay answered his move, followed by a tremendous commotion and
swishing of linen.
"I'm coming in, sir," said Jack, struggling between agitation and
laughter. It was obvious from the sounds that the clergyman had got into
bed again, wet, and as God made him. There was no answer, and Jack
pushed the door wider and went in.
It was as he had thought. His unwilling host had climbed back into bed
as hastily as possible, and the bed-clothes, wildly disordered, were
gathered round his person. A face, with wet hair, looking very odd and
childlike without his glasses, regarded him with the look of one who
sees sacrilege done. A long flannel nightgown lay on the ground between
the steaming bath and the bed, and a quantity of water lay about on the
floor, in footprints and otherwise.
"May I ask what is the meaning of this disgraceful--"
"I'm sorry, sir," said Jack briefly, "but Frank Guiseley's bolted. I've
just found this note." It did not occur to him, as he handed the note to
a bare arm, coyly protruded from the tangled bed-clothes, that this very
officer of the college was referred to in it as "that ass" and "the
little man."... All his attention, not occupied with Frank, was fixed
on the surprising new discovery that deans had bodies and used real
baths like other people. Somehow that had never occurred to him he had
never imagined them except in smooth, black clothes and white linen. His
discovery seemed to make Mr. Mackintosh more human, somehow.
The Dean read the note through as modestly as possible, holding it very
close to his nose, as his glasses were unattainable, with an arm of
which not more than the wrist appeared. He swallowed in his throat once
or twice, and seemed to taste something with his lips, as his manner
was.
"This is terrible!" said the Dean. "Had you any idea--"
"I knew he was going some time to-day," said Jack, "and understood that
you knew too."
"But I had no idea--"
"You did telegraph, didn't you, sir?"
"I certainly telegraphed. Yes; to Lord Talgarth. It was my duty. But--"
"Well; he spotted it. That's all. And now he's gone. What's to be done?"
Mr. Mackintosh considered a moment or two. Jack made an impatient
movement.
"I must telegraph again," said the Dean, with the air of one who has
exhausted the resources of civilization.
"But, good Lord! sir--"
"Yes. I must telegraph again. As soon as I'm dressed. Or perhaps you
would--"
"Office doesn't open till eight. That's no good. He'll be miles away by
then."
"It's the only thing to be done," said the Dean with sudden energy. "I
forbid you to take any other steps, Mr. Kirkby. I am responsible--"
"But--"
|
, of course, would come capture--but he wouldn’t look that
far ahead.
During the afternoon several men approached, one of them displaying a
white handkerchief, which he waved to and fro. When the men reached
the bottom of the hill they dismounted and one made his way slowly up,
shouting now and again, “It’s me, Jim--Joe Ludlow.” Cutler made his
way down the path and, suddenly coming upon Ludlow, ordered him to
throw up his hands. The man did so, saying, “Jim, you and I have been
friends for fifteen years; believe me, I’m unarmed; I want to talk to
you--trust me.” Thereupon Cutler lowered his rifle, and the two men
shook hands. Then followed a long confab, during which Ludlow did his
utmost to get Cutler to surrender. He said Sheriff Benson was prepared
to starve Cutler out, or get him at all costs. It would only mean loss
of life and must eventually result in the fugitive’s capture. Ludlow
said that he, with half-a-dozen “pals,” would assure Cutler a safe
return to Three Corners, sending Benson and all the rest on ahead. Then
Cutler could stand his trial, and, with a good lawyer from Butte to
defend him, would no doubt stand a chance of some sort.
Cutler listened patiently; then he shook his head.
“I know what’s coming to me, Joe,” he said; “they have been after me
for years in a quiet way. Now they want my life, but they sha’n’t have
it--at least not until I’ve paved the way with a few of them.”
Ludlow was a very decent sort of fellow, and he tried his utmost to
convince Cutler that his argument was a good one. Cutler then took
the man into his confidence, and, Ludlow promising not to say a word
to those below, he was told the whole story--told of Miss Thurloe’s
complaints, the episode at the school-house, the shooting of Cutler’s
horse, and everything.
“Well, I’m jiggered!” cried Ludlow, when the tale was finished. “Why
didn’t you let us know this in the first place?” He then informed
the gambler that he would ride back to Three Corners and explain the
situation to the schoolmistress. She had only to tell her story to the
judge, he said, and it was a certainty he would interfere in some way.
Cutler demurred, but Ludlow bluntly told him to “go to h----; he wasn’t
going to see a good man hounded to death.” With that, turning on his
heel, he left without another word.
Going back to the camp, Ludlow informed Sheriff Benson that under no
circumstances ought he to attempt to take Cutler, and asked him to
await his return from Three Corners. Benson replied, “I want none of
your conversation, Ludlow; Cutler is a downright murderer, and I mean
to have him.”
Ludlow, disdaining further argument, rode off at full speed toward the
little town where all the trouble had occurred.
Not knowing just what card Ludlow had up his sleeve, the sheriff
decided to make quick work of Cutler’s capture. He therefore sent a
party of deputies to Malvern, the nearest telegraph station, and in
the name of the law asked the county militia to send him some men with
a mountain gun, the property of private individuals who practised
soldiering as a pastime. Each State in America, it may be said in
passing, possesses several such regiments, which are available in
war-time, although in no way a part of the Government organization, and
having no connection with the State militia. It would have been useless
to attempt to dislodge Cutler as matters stood, but Benson believed
that a few shots from a cannon might have the desired effect. When his
message was received at Malvern it created a sensation. Business was
for the nonce neglected and everybody--men, women, and children--made
their way toward the sheriffs camp at Table Hill.
Several attempts were made to parley with Cutler, without success, and
so three days went by. On the afternoon of the fourth day the refugee
on the rock was thunderstruck to see a body of soldiers approaching
from the south, with a field gun hauled by four horses. He did not
know whether to laugh or to regard this seriously. Surely the officers
of the law would not resort to bombarding him with a cannon? Soon the
soldiers reached the camp, and about an hour later Cutler saw that the
gun, a howitzer, was being trained on the hill where he lay enjoying a
smoke. There was no chance of his getting away other than by the path
by which he had come. Behind him there was a sheer drop of hundreds of
feet into the gully far below. True, he could descend some distance
down the mountain-side, but if the besiegers really meant business this
would not help him much. Nothing was done that day, but Cutler kept
vigilant watch all through the night. He had regularly built a huge
fire some way down the mountain-side, which was protected by trees to
some extent, but lit up the path for a considerable distance.
[Illustration: “IF YOU SO MUCH AS WINK YOUR EYE I’LL PUT A HOLE IN
YOU.”]
The next morning a party numbering a dozen came toward the hill again
bearing a white flag. They stopped some distance off, one man only
continuing--Benson, the Sheriff of Beulah County, himself. Cutler
allowed him to approach much nearer than had Ludlow; then he covered
the advancing sheriff with his rifle.
“Cutler, if we haven’t rushed this place,” said Benson, “it is only
because I did not want to sacrifice human lives, knowing full well that
sooner or later you must give up. I know you are on the square, so I’ve
come up unarmed, being sure you wouldn’t take advantage of the white
flag. I’m only doing my duty. I give you this chance to come back with
me, otherwise I’m afraid they’ll blow this place up and you with it.”
“Regular war, isn’t it?” replied Cutler, smilingly.
“Looks like it,” admitted the sheriff.
“Well, seeing you are trying that game, I’ll just do a little in the
war line myself,” said Cutler. “You walk up this path towards me, and
if you so much as wink your eye I’ll put a hole in you that a tramcar
could go through!”
The sheriff could hardly believe his ears. “Don’t be a fool, Cutler,”
he said, angrily.
“Never mind about my being a fool; you do as you’re told or I’ll drop
you quick.”
Benson evidently had no doubts about the matter, for, though beside
himself with rage, he promptly did as Cutler ordered. The sheriff
was forced to walk ahead, and no doubt, had his captor been almost
any other man than Jim Cutler, there would have been one big fight
on Table Hill, gun or no gun, but Benson knew that Cutler would do
just as he said he would. Arrived at the top, Benson was forced to
write a note saying that he was a captive, and that perhaps it would
be just as well not to fire the cannon in the direction it was now
trained. Furthermore, one man was to approach the hill with food,
whisky, and tobacco. The note was then secured to a large stone by the
aid of Sheriff Benson’s braces, and while Cutler “stood by” Benson
was ordered to throw this stone toward the deputy in charge of the
waiting horsemen below. This man, or one of those with him, picked up
the stone, and read the message to the others. There was a great laugh
below--plainly heard by the two men on the ledge--and, needless to
say, the merriment of his assistants did not add to Benson’s peace of
mind. Cutler now laid his rifle down, first having drawn a six-shooter.
Then, approaching Benson, he searched him for concealed firearms, but
the sheriff was unarmed. The latter was now told to sit down and make
himself comfortable at the opening which led to the path, Cutler being
thereby able to watch both his prisoner and the approach from below.
Soon a solitary figure came from the camp, carrying the food “ordered.”
It was brought as near as Cutler permitted it to be, and then Benson,
under cover of the rifle, was sent to fetch it. It looked for a moment
as though there might be a fight after all, but Cutler’s business-like
demeanour soon caused his prisoner to change his mind.
With the food there was a note, reading, “Are we to wait for you or
not?” This did not appeal to the sheriff’s sense of humour, and he tore
the paper into shreds.
Just at sundown a large cloud of dust was noticed in the distance,
which soon turned out to be a number of mounted men with a wagon, or
“prairie schooner.” The new-comers were presently merged with those in
camp, and not long afterwards two men, escorting a woman, rode slowly
toward Table Hill. Again the white flag was raised, and a voice shouted
from below, “Hi, Jim, it’s me--Ludlow.”
Cutler permitted his friend to approach, and when he gained the ledge
Ludlow had a hard struggle to restrain his laughter at the unfortunate
sheriff’s predicament.
“I’ve brought some news for you, Jim,” said Ludlow. “That school-ma’am
is a brick, and no mistake. When I told her how things stood, she came
right to the front, and not only saw Judge Nolan, but drove twenty
miles to see Governor Hill, and here’s the result.”
Ludlow then handed Sheriff Benson an official communication paroling
Cutler in his own recognizances pending investigation of Miss Thurloe’s
story. Western men are nothing if not intensely chivalrous, and, if
this girl’s story was correct, Cutler, in their estimation, deserved,
not death, but a medal.
The amazed sheriff scratched his head and Cutler seemed undecided, but
Ludlow grasped his hand eagerly. “Come on, old fellow, down to the
sea-level,” he cried. This broke the tension, and all three men smiled.
“There is nothing for me to do but obey this, Cutler,” said the
sheriff, slowly; “but I’ll tell you straight I don’t feel like doing
it.”
Ludlow turned to Benson and informed him that Judge Nolan had made
him a Court officer, the tenure of his office being thirty days, and
that he would brook no interference from Benson or anyone else. That
settled it. The trio walked down the path, where Miss Thurloe, with
tears in her eyes, thanked Cutler for his brave and manly action on her
behalf. She said that she had reason to believe he would be acquitted,
and that, as no warrant had been issued for his arrest until after he
had shot the men who had attempted to stop him, it must be a case of
self-defence.
Cutler was received with cheers by the crowd in camp--the same men
who were thirsting for his blood an hour before--and soon everybody
was seeking the nearest way home, and the scene of action was
shortly deserted. It is not possible to chronicle that Jim Cutler
was triumphantly acquitted at his trial. His character went strongly
against him--that is to say, the fact that he had previously figured in
“shooting scrapes”--but, nevertheless, his sentence was a comparatively
light one. The State’s attorney (analogous to counsel for the Crown)
laid great stress on the fact of Cutler’s having visited Goldman’s
shop, obviously seeking trouble, when he should have reported the
attempt on his life to the authorities. He was sentenced to five years
in the State prison, but was pardoned at the expiration of eleven
months. He is now living in Butte, the capital of the State of Montana,
where he has opened a saloon. Miss Thurloe left Three Corners, and is
believed to be teaching in Pittsburg, U.S.A.
The local newspapers poked much fun at the soldiers who took their
cannon miles out to bombard what they jocularly called “a one-man
army”; but all the same they meant business, and had matters not ended
as they did there would have been a change in the landscape just there,
for the top of Table Hill would in all probability have been blown to
pieces, and Jim Cutler with it.
[Illustration]
Photographing a Volcano in Eruption.
BY FRANK DAVEY.
A vivid description of a photographer’s adventures in securing
pictures of the eruption of Makuaweoweo, in Hawaii. With pen
and camera Mr. Davey depicts the awe inspiring grandeur of
the lake of fire in the crater of Mauna Loa, the pyrotechnic
display afforded by the active cone on the mountain-side, and
the horrors of night amid the lava-wastes, where death menaced
the party on every hand.
On Tuesday, July 1, 1899, reports reached Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands,
that the volcano of Makuaweoweo, situated at the summit of Mauna Loa,
thirteen thousand six hundred and seventy-five feet high, on the island
of Hawaii, had burst forth with all the fury of years gone by. I was
anxious to get some photographs of the eruption if possible, and so
made all the haste I could to get my paraphernalia together and catch
the steamer _W. H. Hall_, bound for Hawaii.
[Illustration: “PAHOEHOE” LAVA, WHICH APPEARS AS THOUGH IT HAD COOLED
WHILE FLOWING QUIETLY.
_From a Photograph._]
I left with the intention of reaching the scene of action from the
Kau side of the island, but when, upon arriving at Kailua, Kona, I
telegraphed to Mr. N. S. Monsarrat, at Kapapalu, I found that he had a
house full of guests bent on the same journey, and that all his horses
had been engaged. Rather than lose time, therefore, I decided to take
the most difficult route of all--right over the great mountain from the
Kona side. The obstacles to be overcome may perhaps be imagined when I
state that Mauna Loa is a volcanic mountain, nearly fourteen thousand
feet high, and that one has to make one’s way for the entire distance
over every kind of lava formation.
[Illustration: “A. A.” LAVA, WHICH LOOKS AS THOUGH IT HAD SOLIDIFIED
WHILE TOSSING LIKE A SEA IN A STORM AND THEN BEEN BROKEN UP BY
EARTHQUAKES. [_From a Photograph_.]
It was with great difficulty that I managed to get horses and mules
from the natives, who knew the condition of the country, for the
animals inevitably get badly knocked about, their legs being terribly
cut by the lava, which is divided into two classes--“Pahoehoe” and
“A. A.” The former term is applied to tracts of comparatively smooth
lava, which appears as though it had cooled while flowing quietly; the
latter is applied to stretches of broken lava which seem to have cooled
when tossing like an ocean in a bad storm, and to have afterwards been
broken up by earthquakes. No words of description can convey an idea
of its roughness and hardness, which may be faintly realized from an
inspection of the above photograph.
During the time I was hunting for horses a number of gentlemen arrived
and expressed their desire to join me in the expedition. I was only too
pleased to have their company, so five travellers threw in their lot
with me: Professor Ingalls, Colonel McCarthy, and Messrs. Sterns Buck,
J. Ballard, and H. C. Klugel. These, with three guides, completed our
party.
We were up early the next morning. The first part of the journey was
one of the most delightful rides I ever had. We rode for hours through
magnificent tropical growths. There were giant ferns, some of which
must have been thirty or forty feet high and three feet in diameter,
groves of guavas, coco-nuts, and other fruits, miles of wild mint and
bright-coloured flowers, and orchids of most delicate shapes.
At dusk we reached the edge of the timber-line, in a drenching rain,
a downpour such as is experienced only in the tropics, where the rain
descends in sheets. We ate our supper and then spent the night huddled
miserably together, trying in vain to keep dry.
We resumed our journey at daybreak, over the most terrible country that
can be imagined. The sharp edges of the lava cut through our stout
boots like broken glass, and the poor animals suffered greatly. Still,
however, we persevered, and finally reached the summit just as it was
getting dark. Near the centre of the mountain-top an area of about four
square miles sinks to a depth of one thousand feet. This is the great
crater of Makuaweoweo, which we had endured so much to see.
As I stood there in the cold, in the midst of those cheerless and
God-forsaken wastes, I gazed down with speechless awe upon the
untrammelled frolics of the God of Fire. The tempest-tossed lake of
molten lava below the rim of the great cauldron was a typical workshop
of Vulcan. The face of the lake of liquid fire alternated continually
between black and white, like molten iron in a furnace. Oxidation
and cooling of the fiery fluid would blacken the surface with a pall
that covered it in darkest gloom; then a trembling, caused by further
subterranean outbursts of steam, would break this ice-like oxide into a
fretwork of tens of thousands of incandescent cracks, lighting up the
smoke-charged pit with a fierce glare. Another moment, and in different
parts of the lake geysers of fire of every imaginable colour would rise
like fountains in a public garden.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR SURVEYING THE CRATER OF MAKUAWEOWEO FROM A
PINNACLE OF LAVA.
_From a Photograph._]
The great forbidding-looking walls of this “home of everlasting fire”
sparkled with the unusual light, and then, as the spouts of flame died
away, the surface would again turn black, leaving the whole mass to all
appearances dead.
We found that the worst outbreak was about five thousand feet farther
down the mountain-side. Some of our party were seized with such a
sickness of horror at the crater’s edge that they rolled themselves
up in their blankets and refused to look down upon this fiery
maelstrom--and that after two days of arduous effort to reach a point
of view!
When the time came for sleep, another man and I turned into a
“blowhole” in the lava; it was an immense bubble that had cooled
and left an opening so that we could crawl in. We little thought
that there was another hole at the other end, and the piercing wind
blew through this like a funnel; but we had to stay there, for it is
dangerous to wander about over the rifts and chasms of jagged lava in
the darkness. Here, in this strange bed-chamber, we slept, or tried
to sleep--shivering and shuddering through the chilly solitude of the
night in those desolate mountain wastes.
[Illustration: THE CRATER OF MAKUAWEOWEO, SHOWING THE AWFUL LAKE OF
LIQUID FIRE.
_From a Photograph._]
Walking across the congealed masses of lava next morning, one began to
think that at any moment one was liable to drop through to the very
gates of Hades and be precipitated to the most horrible of deaths.
Underneath one was a bottomless abyss of mud, sulphur, and rock; and
to contemplate being cast into that fearsome-looking lake of fire and
brimstone was not at all comfortable. The Biblical description of hell
does not convey even a faint idea of that terrible lake of fire below
us, which appeared to be fretting and fuming as though anxious to get
loose and destroy everything in its path. The crater of Makuaweoweo at
that time, without doubt, afforded the spectator a more awe-inspiring
display of the forces of Nature than has been granted to man elsewhere
on earth without the sacrifice of life.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AND HIS COMPANIONS AS THEY APPEARED JUST
BEFORE LEAVING THEIR HORSES TO VISIT THE WORST OUTBREAK.
_From a Photograph._]
Soon after daylight we prepared for the descent to the point that was
throwing out molten lava at a white heat. It was practically impossible
to take the horses farther, so we tethered them to stones near the
yawning depths of Makuaweoweo, and left one of the guides to look after
them. We were very thirsty, but it was some time before we could find
water, though snow and ice were plentiful. Farther down, however, we
discovered water in a deep crack in the lava, filled the canteens,
and started on our downward journey. I was suffering from mountain
sickness; my head felt as if it would burst and my stomach was upside
down. We stumbled along with difficulty for about two miles, when I had
to get the assistance of Mr. Buck to carry my camera. Two of our party
who had started out in advance gave it up and returned--they could not
stand the strain of the rough travelling. This left but four of us,
with two guides.
Presently we reached a cone where the lava had piled up to the height
of about one hundred feet, then, bursting out at the side, disappeared
into the ground, to reappear about a quarter of a mile farther down
and repeat its action. These cones averaged two hundred feet in width
at the base and one hundred feet in height, and we passed five “dead”
ones. A sixth was still smoking, but was not active. Two of the party
tried to climb to the top of this cone, but were unable to do so.
We then pushed on to cone number seven, which was belching forth huge
volumes of steam and sulphur. The fumes, most fortunately, were being
blown away from us. At this stage one of the guides refused to go any
farther; it was too dangerous, he said, so he proceeded to retrace his
steps, while we others continued our journey toward cone number eight.
This was the last and largest, and was, I should estimate, about two
hundred feet high; in fact, a veritable miniature volcano, spouting
red-hot lava a hundred feet in the air with a ripping boom that could
be heard for miles. Boulders that must have weighed a ton were being
hurled high into the air as if shot from a cannon. Others followed
to meet those coming down, and as they met they burst like explosive
shells, scattering molten matter on all sides. This flowed down the
incline in cascades like water, showing red, yellow, blue, and all the
colours of the rainbow.
[Illustration: TWO OF THE “DEAD” CONES PASSED BY THE PARTY.
_From a Photograph._]
It is impossible to describe the grandeur of the effect, and a
knowledge of the force that was causing the display made one feel very
small indeed. Some of the ejected masses were as large as a horse, and
when they were belched forth were at a white heat. They went so high
that they had time to cool and return to the vortex black.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon when we reached this wonderful
display. It had taken us nine hours to reach the volcano, and we were
thirsty and well-nigh exhausted. We could not approach very near on
account of the heat, but I made some photographic exposures, and then
sat for an hour watching the wonderful sight. As the sun went down the
magnificence of the scene increased. The ground shook at each explosion
to such an extent as to make us sick. We found quantities of what is
known as “Pele’s hair.”[1] It is caused by the wind blowing the liquid
lava through the air, forming fine threads like human hair.
[Footnote 1: Pele, according to the native legends, is the goddess of
the volcano, and dwells in the crater.]
As we approached cone number seven on our return journey the wind
changed, and to our consternation we saw a cloud of sulphur blowing
right across our path. These masses of vapour are so impregnated with
sulphur and poisonous gases that it is impossible for any living thing
to exist among them, and to get caught in their midst means death.
Alarmed, we started to go around the other side, but found the lava was
too hot; the surface was cool, but there was living fire beneath, and
we dared not proceed. We kept on until the lava began to move under our
feet, and then beat a retreat to face the sulphur again, for it was
better to be smothered to death than slowly roasted.
[Illustration: CONE “NUMBER SEVEN”--IT WAS ABOUT TWO HUNDRED FEET HIGH,
A MINIATURE VOLCANO, SPOUTING RED-HOT LAVA AND GIANT BOULDERS WITH A
ROAR THAT COULD BE HEARD FOR MILES. _From a Photograph._]
We made a number of attempts to pass that deadly barrier of vapour, but
were forced to return each time, nearly suffocated. It looked as though
we should soon be choked to death--the fire at the back of us, the
sulphur in front. Professor Ingalls remarked that we had better make
the best of our time by taking notes, and then prepare for the worst.
Just at this critical moment I happened to turn round and saw an arch,
as it were, in the sulphur smoke, where the wind was blowing it up from
the ground.
“Look! look!” I shouted, in great excitement. “Run for it!” And how
we ran! Providence gave us the chance and fear lent us strength, for
under ordinary circumstances we could never have run as we did, owing
to the condition of our feet. The danger, however, made us forget the
pain, and we ran for dear life. We had scarcely got through that arch
of clear air when down came the cloud again, as though lowered by some
great power. The only guide who had stayed with us fell exhausted at
the edge of the vapour-mass. How I managed to drag him along I do not
know; I hardly realized what I was doing, but I managed to save him.
Once past the danger-point we crawled along at our best pace, for at
any moment the wind might turn in our direction, when we should be
again overtaken by that terrible death-cloud. I had left my camera
behind in our wild flight, but fortunately I saved several plates.
It was now night, and the only light we had was the lurid glare from
the volcano. Suddenly, as we stumbled painfully along, we came upon
a man sitting by the side of a dead cone; it was the guide who had
returned. He said he did not expect to see us alive again, for he had
seen the deadly smoke blow across the mountain.
If it had not been for the light from the volcano we should undoubtedly
have perished of cold and thirst, as we should have been compelled to
stop walking. As it was, we dared not halt for any length of time, or
we should not have had warmth enough to keep the blood circulating.
All that night we crawled over that terrible lava. We fell down at
intervals of about twenty feet, often breaking through the black crust,
sometimes up to our waists, cutting ourselves on the sharp projections
until our hands and legs were woefully lacerated. Almost as soon as
we fell we dropped asleep; then, as we got colder, we would wake up
and force ourselves on again for a few dozen yards or so, only to fall
asleep, wake, and struggle up once more. The agony of the situation and
the pain of our wounds were enough to make a man go insane.
At last it began to get light, but still we had come across no water,
and that in our canteens had long since been exhausted. Very few
people, fortunately, know what it means to have their throats and lips
so swollen and cracked that they are bleeding for want of water. I
could scarcely speak. We hunted the depths and crevices of the lava,
sometimes going down ten or fifteen feet, looking for water, only to be
disappointed again and again. At last I got so weak that Mr. Buck had
to take my package of plates off my back, where I had tied them.
Suddenly I saw a break in the lava nearly full of beautiful water. I
pulled Mr. Buck’s arm, pointing to it, and mumbled, “Water.” Slowly he
pulled off his coat and started to climb down the crack. It was about
eight feet wide, narrowing to three. I leaned over the side, holding
the canteen for Mr. Buck to fill. He went down a few feet, and then
stopped. I motioned to him to fill the bottle, croaking, “Water.” He
did not look around, but mumbled, “I see no water,” as if in a dream.
Picking up a piece of lava, I tossed it down and cried hoarsely,
“_There_ is the water.” But to my astonishment the pebble went down,
down, down, out of sight, with no sound of a splash, into a fathomless
abyss. The crevice was so deep that we could not see the bottom, and
the shock of the discovery made me faint. How Sterns Buck managed to
return he does not remember; it is a wonder he did not fall, to be
mangled upon the sharp corners of lava.
I came to my senses dazed and almost bewildered, and Buck and I sat
motionless for some time staring at each other. After a time we
scrambled on again until we came upon the guide sitting upon the edge
of a high crack, eating frozen snow, and tearing at it with his teeth
like a hungry dog. We followed his example, not without pain, but the
snow tasted good.
Some of the party who had previously returned met us near the summit
with coffee. When they saw us coming they got things ready so as to
make us as comfortable as possible. After washing our lacerated hands
and feet we took a good sleep, and awoke much refreshed. The journey
home was, comparatively speaking, easy, but the memory of that night
amidst the lava will last me to my dying day.
[Illustration: Our Leopard Hunt.]
BY THOMAS B. MARSHALL.
An exciting story told by a former official of the Gold Coast
Government. With a friend and some natives he went out to shoot
a marauding leopard. They accomplished their mission, but
before the day was over one and all of the party had received a
good deal more than they bargained for.
In 1899, while in the service of the Gold Coast Government, and
stationed at Kumasi, I received orders “per bearer, who will accompany
you,” to proceed to a point on Volta not far south of where it
debouches from among the Saraga Hills. “The bearer,” a nice young
fellow called Strange, was newly arrived in the colony, and his
pleasant home gossip was not less welcome to me than my information
about the country we were in was to him. Our rough forest journey,
then, passed as pleasantly as such journeys can, and by the time we
arrived at our destination we were the best of friends.
Akroful, a town of about seven hundred inhabitants, was the nearest
place of any size to the spot where we pitched our camp, and we were
soon on good terms with its headman, Otibu Daku, and his son, Dansani,
both of whom put us in the way of some good shooting.
We had been in this place about a fortnight, when we began to be
annoyed by the depredations of a marauding leopard, who took to
visiting our live-stock pens, and at last we decided to lie in wait
for him. I took the first watch until a snake crawled over my legs;
then I went to bed. It was a harmless one, but it reminded me of the
need of precaution, so next night found our lair surrounded by a very
uninviting floor of cactus leaves.
The fourth night after our vigil commenced Strange succeeded in
wounding our sell-invited guest, and we determined to track him down
as soon as it was light. Otibu Daku and his son willingly agreed to
help us; and I took, in addition, two of my own men who would, I
knew, “stand fire”--Ashong Tawiah, an Accra man, and Nyato, my chief
steward-boy, a Krooman.
The two Ashantis led the way, Otibu Daku carrying a “long Dane” gun;
his son, a machete. Tawiah and Nyato also carried machetes, and the
former, on leaving camp, had picked up a broad-bladed Hausa spear.
Strange and I each had a repeating rifle and a revolver, for, as Nyato
told me, “Dem headman, ’e say, plenty tiger lib dem part.”
The trail was easy to follow. There was not much blood, but the
ground was soft from recent rain. It was rough going, however, and
the machetes were constantly at work clearing a way. Up and down
small watersheds, squelching through marshy bottoms, crossing streams
on fallen trees, we frequently lost the track, but by some sort of
instinct our guides always found it again.
At last, after descending a more than usually steep incline, we found
ourselves in a valley of some size. The bush here was very thin, and we
progressed without difficulty until we came in sight of the inevitable
stream, the opposite bank of which, rising steeply, evidently formed
the commencement of the next divide. I was about a dozen yards to
Strange’s right; the ground was clear of bush between us and the
stream; and on the nearer bank, his head overhanging the water, lay
our quarry, clearly dying. But he was not alone. Stretched by his
side, licking the wound that was letting out his life, lay a fine
female leopard, evidently his consort. On seeing us she rose to her
feet, snarling; she abandoned her ministrations and became militant--a
defender-avenger. Strange fired hastily on sight, and a convulsive
heave of the prostrate body showed where the bullet struck. With a
light leap the leopardess cleared her mate, and with long, low springs
raced down towards my friend. He fired again at thirty yards, wounding
her, and she swerved slightly and came in my direction. We both fired
together, whereupon she stopped suddenly, reared straight up, pawing
the air--then fell backward, stone-dead.
[Illustration: “SHE REARED STRAIGHT UP PAWING THE AIR--THEN FELL
BACKWARD, STONE-DEAD.”]
Hardly had the double report died away when our attention was attracted
to a movement on the other side of the stream. Tawiah pointed.
“Oolah! tiger him piccin!” (“Master, the leopard’s cubs”), he cried.
Slinking away downstream, with long, stealthy strides, their muzzles to
the ground and tails trailing low, were two half-grown leopards, the
head of one level with the other’s haunch.
“Tally-ho!” cried Strange, and let fly at them. His one fault as a
sportsman was a too great eagerness to get the first shot in. The white
splinters flew from the buttress of a great cotton-wood, and the nearer
cub, startled as never before, leapt a man’s height from the ground,
and, coming down, raced away downstream after its companion.
“Come on! We’ll bag the whole family,” said Strange, jumping into the
stream. Otibu Daku was already across and I was about to follow, when
I noticed, fluttering up the farther slope, one of those beautiful
insects called the “dead leaf” butterfly. You will see one fluttering
along like a fugitive piece of rainbow--then suddenly it will alight on
a withered branch or heap of dead herbage and disappear, the underside
of the wings being in shape, colour, and even veining an exact
imitation of a withered leaf.
I was an enthusiastic collector, and never went out without a folding
net that could be fixed to any fairly straight stick. Bidding Tawiah
remain with me, then, I let the others go on after the cubs, and in a
|
an anchor plenty of line or scope as it is called.
Six times the depth of water is sufficient under ordinary conditions.
In bad weather give all you can spare.
TO GET UNDERWAY:
If at anchor before making sail heave in short on your hawser or chain,
but be careful not to take in enough to trip the hook, then cast loose
and hoist the sail, when ready heave in and break the anchor out of the
bottom.
TO CAST:
To cast a vessel is to turn her head from an anchorage or mooring so
as to make her go off on a chosen tack. This is sometimes necessary
when anchored between other vessels or close to shore. Supposing it is
necessary in order to clear to take the port tack: Haul your mainsail
over to starboard, putting your helm the same way. This wall cause
her to make a sternboard and her bow will fall off to port. A surer
way if at a mooring is to pass a light line to the buoy; carry this
aft outside of the rigging to the starboard quarter, then let go the
mooring warp and haul in on the spring line. This will cause her head
to pay off to port; when on the course let go the spring. To cast her
to starboard reverse these proceedings.
_RULES OF THE ROAD_
The rules of the road are the rules governing the movements of vessels
when underway. They are laws enacted by an agreement between all
maritime nations, and obedience to them is compulsory. If in case of
a collision, it is proved that one of the parties has violated a rule
of the road, the damages lie against the violator. Yachtsmen should
thoroughly learn and understand these rules, and should always maintain
and obey them.
A _steam vessel_ is any vessel propelled by machinery--this includes
naphtha, gasolene, kerosene and electric launches.
A _sailing vessel_ is a vessel wholly propelled by sails.
An _auxiliary_ yacht when using her engines, no matter whether she has
sail set or not is a _steam vessel_. If not using her engine she is a
sailing vessel.
Steam vessels must keep out of the way of sailing vessels; sailing
vessels must keep out of the way of row-boats.
Vessels of all kinds, when underway, must keep clear of anchored craft
or craft lying idle or hove-to.
Overtaking vessels must keep clear of vessels overtaken. A sailing
vessel overtaking a launch must keep clear of the launch.
When two sailing vessels are approaching one another, so as to involve
risk of collision, one of them shall keep out of the way of the other
as follows:
A vessel which is running free shall keep out of the way of a vessel
which is close-hauled.
A vessel which is close-hauled on the port tack shall keep out of the
way of a vessel which is close-hauled on the starboard tack.
When both are running free, with the wind on different sides, the
vessel which has the wind on the port side shall keep out of the way of
the other.
When both are running free, with the wind on the same side, the vessel
which is to the windward shall keep out of the way of the vessel which
is to the leeward.
A vessel which has the wind aft shall keep out of the way of the other
vessel.
RUNNING LIGHTS.
A sailing vessel, when running at night, carries a green light on her
starboard side, and a red light on her port side. Such lights are
generally carried in the rigging, about six feet above the rail.
A rowboat must carry a white light in a lantern to show when in danger
of being run down.
A steam vessel carries the same lights as a sailing vessel, with the
addition of a white light at the foremast head, or on launches on top
of the pilot house.
A steam vessel, when towing another vessel, carries two white lights;
if she is towing more than one vessel, tandem fashion, she shall carry
three white lights.
ANCHOR LIGHTS.
A vessel when at anchor must keep burning a white light, throwing an
unbroken flare in every direction; this light should be hoisted above
the deck the height of the vessel's breadth.
All lights must be carried from sunset to sunrise; no other lights
should be shown.
FOG SIGNALS.
A steam vessel must be provided with a whistle operated by steam or air.
A sailing vessel must be provided with a horn.
In fog, mist, falling snow, or heavy rainstorms, whether by day or
night, the signals described shall be used:
A steam vessel underway shall sound, at intervals of not more than one
minute, a prolonged blast.
A sailing vessel underway shall sound, at intervals of not more than
one minute, when on the starboard tack, one blast; when on the port
tack, two blasts in succession, and when with the wind abaft the beam,
three blasts in succession.
A vessel when at anchor shall, at intervals of not more than one
minute, ring the bell rapidly for about five seconds.
A steam vessel when towing shall, instead of the signal prescribed
above, at intervals of not more than one minute, sound three blasts in
succession, namely, one prolonged blast followed by two short blasts. A
vessel towed may give this signal and she shall not give any other.
All rafts or other water craft, not herein provided for, navigating by
hand power, horse-power, or by the current of the river, shall sound a
blast of the fog horn, or equivalent signal, at intervals of not more
than one minute.
STEAM VESSEL SIGNALS.
_One blast_--I am directing my course to starboard.
_Two blasts_--I am directing my course to port.
_Three blasts_--I am going astern.
The vessel that blows first has the right of way.
Passing through narrow channels a vessel must keep to that bank of the
fairway which is on her starboard hand.
_GLOSSARY_
ABACK--Said of a sail when the wind blows on the back or wrong
side of it and forces the boat sternwards.
ABAFT--Towards the stern, as abaft the mast.
ABEAM--At right angles to the length of the vessel, as a dock is
abeam when it bears directly off one side.
ABOARD--On the vessel, as come aboard, get the anchor aboard, etc.
ABOUT--To go about is to tack.
ADRIFT--Broken loose, as the boat is adrift, the sheet is adrift,
etc.
AFT--Back or behind, as come aft, haul the mainsheet aft, meaning
to pull it towards the stern.
AFTER--As after sails, meaning the sails set behind the mast. In a
sloop the mainsail is an after sail and the jib a foreward one.
AHEAD--In front of, as a buoy is ahead when steering towards it.
A-LEE--An order to put the helm over towards the lee side. The
helm is hard a-lee when it is as far over towards the lee side as
it will go.
ALOFT--Up above.
ALONGSIDE--Close to the side.
AMIDSHIPS--In line with the keel.
ANCHOR--The instrument used to hold a vessel to the bottom,
usually made of iron.
ASTERN--Behind the vessel.
ATHWART--Across, as athwartships, meaning that a thing is lying
across the vessel.
AVAST--An order to stop.
A-WEATHER--An order to put the helm towards the windward side.
BALLAST--Weight placed in or hung to the bottom of a boat to keep
her upright.
BEATING--Tacking. Sailing towards the source of the wind by making
a series of tacks.
BECALMED--Being without enough wind to propel the boat.
BEEHOLE--A hole bored in a spar for a rope to pass through and
move freely.
BELAY--To make a rope fast to cleat or pin.
BEND--To bend is to fasten, as to bend a sail, i. e., lace it to
the spars. Bend the cable, meaning to fasten it to the anchor.
BIGHT--The slack or loop of a rope.
BILGE--The inside of the lower part of the bottom of a boat, where
the water she leaks in stands.
BINNACLE--A box for the steering compass which can be lighted at
night.
BLOCKS--The instrument through which ropes are rove so as to
facilitate the hoisting and trimming of the sails, called by
landsmen pulleys.
BOARD--A tack.
BOBSTAY--A rope generally of wire extending from the end of the
bowsprit to the stem to hold the spar down.
BOLT-ROPE--The rope sewn round the edge of a sail to strengthen it.
BOOM--The spar used to extend the foot of the mainsail or foresail.
BOW--The forward end of a boat.
BOWSPRIT--The spar thrust out from the bow upon which the jib is
set.
BURGEE--The ensign or house flag of a yacht club.
BY THE HEAD--A boat is said to be by the head, when she is drawing
more water forward than aft, or is out of trim owing to her bows
being overloaded and depressed.
BY THE STERN--The opposite to by the head.
BY THE WIND--Same as on the wind, or close-hauled.
CABLE--A rope or chain used to anchor a boat.
CAPSIZE--To upset.
CAST OFF--To loosen, as cast off that line.
CASTING--To pay a boat's head off from a mooring by getting the
sails aback or by using a spring line.
CAT RIG--A vessel with one mast, placed right in the bow, and
carrying a single sail.
CENTERBOARD--A keel that can be lifted up and down. It is hung in
a trunk or box which is built up inside the boat to keep the water
out.
CLEAT--A piece of wood, iron or brass used to fasten or belay
ropes to.
CLEWS--The corners of a sail.
CLOSE-HAULED--A vessel is close-hauled when she is sailing as
close to the wind as possible.
COIL--To gather a rope into a series of circles so that it will
roll out again without getting tangled.
CON--To direct a helmsman how to steer.
COURSE--The direction or path which a boat sails.
CRINGLE--An eye worked in the bolt rope of a sail for a small line
to pass through.
CROTCH--Two pieces of wood put together like a pair of scissors
and used to hold the boom up when the vessel is at anchor.
DOWNHAUL--A rope used to haul a sail down.
DRAUGHT--The depth of water necessary to float a boat, the amount
in feet and inches a vessel's hull is immersed.
DRIFT--To move sideways or sternways, as when a boat is becalmed.
The drift of a tide or current is its velocity.
ENSIGN--The national flag always flown furthest aft, either from
the gaff end or on a flagpole over the stern.
FATHOM--Six feet. A measure used by seamen principally to
designate depths of water.
FLUKES--The broad, arrow-shaped parts of an anchor.
FORE--The part of a vessel nearest to the bow.
FORE AND AFT--Parallel to the keel. A fore-and-after is a vessel
without square sails like a sloop or schooner.
FOUL--Entangled or caught, as a rope is foul, meaning it is caught
in someway. To foul another boat is to run into it.
FURL--To roll up and make sails fast so that the wind cannot
distend them.
GAFF--The spar that extends the head of a main or foresail.
GASKET--A short piece of rope used to tie up sails with,
frequently called a stop.
GRIPE--A boat is said to gripe when she tries to force her bow up
in the wind, and has to be held off by putting the helm up.
HALYARDS--Ropes used to hoist a sail.
HANKS--Rings made fast to the luff of a jib to hold it to the stay
up which it is hoisted. On small boats snap-hooks are generally
used.
HAUL--To pull.
HEEL--A vessel is said to heel when she leans to one side. This
term is often confused with careen.
HELM--The tiller.
HITCH--To hitch is to make fast. A hitch is a simple turn of rope
used to make fast with.
HOVE-TO--Brought to the wind and kept stationary by having the
sails trimmed so that part of the canvas pushes the vessel
backward and part pushes her forward; often confused with lying-to.
HULL--The body of a vessel.
IRONS--A vessel is in irons when having lost steerageway she
refuses to obey the helm.
JIBING--Passing a sail from one side to the other when a vessel is
sailing free.
KEEL--The largest and lowest timber of a vessel, upon which the
hull is erected.
LEACH--The after edge of a sail.
LEEWARD--The direction toward which the wind is blowing.
LONG LEG--The tack upon which a vessel in beating to windward
remains longest, owing to her point of destination not lying
directly in the wind. See diagram.
LOG--The record kept of a vessel's work. A ship's diary. Also an
instrument for ascertaining a vessel's speed through the water.
LUFF--The fore edge of a sail, also an order to bring a vessel
closer to the wind.
LYING-TO--A vessel is lying-to when she is brought close to the
wind under short sail and allowed to ride out a storm. See hove-to.
MOOR--To anchor a vessel with two or more anchors. To tie up to a
mooring.
MOORING--A permanent anchor.
NEAR--A vessel is said to be near when her sails are not properly
full of wind, owing to her being steered too close.
MISS-STAY--To fail to tack or go about.
OFF AND ON--When beating to windward to approach the land on one
tack and leave it on the other.
OVERHAUL--To haul a rope through a block so as to see it all
clear. To overtake another vessel.
PAINTER--The rope attached to the bow of boat by which it is made
fast.
PART--To part a rope is to break it.
PAY OFF--To pay off is to recede from the wind or from a dock.
PEAK UP--To peak up a sail is to haul on the peak halyards so as
to elevate the outer end of the gaff.
POOPING--A vessel is said to be pooped when, owing to her not
moving fast enough ahead, the sea breaks over her stern.
PORT--The left-hand side of a vessel looking forward, formerly
called larboard. Designating color, red.
PREVENTER--A rope used to prevent the straining or breaking of a
spar or sail.
PENNANT--A narrow flag, also a short piece of rope commonly
spelled pendant.
QUARTER--See diagram A.
RAKE--The inclination of a spar out of the perpendicular.
REEF--To reduce a sail by rolling up and tying part of it to a
spar.
REEVE--To pass a rope through a block.
RIDE--As to ride at anchor.
RIGHT--A vessel is said to right when after being on her side she
regains an upright position.
RIGHT THE HELM--To put it amidships.
RODE--A hawser used to anchor with.
SCOPE--The length of cable a vessel is riding to when at anchor.
SERVE--To wind cord or canvas round a rope or spar to protect it
from chafing.
SEIZE--To make fast by taking a number of turns with small line.
SHEER--To sheer is to move away from the proper course. The sheer
of a vessel is the fore-and-aft curve of the deck line.
SHIP--To ship is to take on board.
SHIVER--To shake the canvas by bringing the luff in the wind.
SLACK--The part of a rope that hangs loose.
SLIP--To slip is to let go of a cable without taking it on board.
SNUB--To check the cable when running out.
SOUND--To try the depth of water by casting the lead.
SPILL--To throw the wind out of a sail by putting the helm down or
by easing the sheet.
SPRING--To spring a spar is to crack it.
SPRING--A rope used to cast or turn a vessel.
STAND ON--To keep a course--to proceed in the same direction.
STAND-BY--To be ready for action, as stand-by to let go the anchor.
STARBOARD--The right-hand side looking forward. Designating color,
green.
STEER--To direct a vessel by employing the helm.
STOW--To furl. Properly speaking, a boom sail or any sail that
lowers down is stowed. Square sails are furled.
SWIG--To haul a rope by holding a turn round a cleat and pulling
off laterally.
TACK--To beat to windward. See diagram.
TACKLE--An assemblage of blocks and rope used to hoist and control
sails, lift spars, etc.
TAUT--Tight.
TENDER--The small boat carried by a yacht generally called a
dingey.
TOW--To drag behind.
TRUCK--The uttermost upper end of the mast through which the
signal halyard is rove.
UNBEND--To untie, as--unbend the cable.
WAKE--The furrow left by the passage of the vessel through the
water.
WEAR OR VEER--The opposite of tacking--to turn from the wind.
WARP--A hawser used to make fast with. To warp is to haul or move
a vessel by pulling on such a rope.
WATCH--A division of the crew, also the space of time they are on
duty.
WAY--A vessel's progress through the water. To get underway--to
set sail, to move off.
WEATHER--To weather a vessel or object is to pass to windward of
it.
WEATHER SIDE--The side upon which the wind blows.
WEATHER SHORE--The weather shore is the shore from off of which
the wind blows if viewed from the sea, but it is the shore upon
which the wind blows if viewed from the land.
WEIGH OR WAY--To way the anchor is to lift it from the bottom.
WIND'S EYE--The exact direction from which the wind blows.
WINDWARD--Toward the place from where the wind comes. To go to
windward of another vessel is to pass between her and the source
of the wind.
YAW--To swerve from side to side as a vessel does when running
free.
_Diagrams and Plans_
[Illustration: DIAGRAM D.--BOAT, FROM 1 TO 6, IS BEARING AWAY OR
KEEPING OFF FROM THE WIND; BOAT, FROM 8 TO 13, IS LUFFING OR NEARING
THE WIND.]
_DIAGRAM C._
1--Close-hauled on port tack.
2--Wind forward of the beam.
3--Wind abeam.
4-- " abaft the beam.
5-- " on the quarter.
6-- " astern.
7-- " dead astern.
8--Jibed over to starboard tack.
9--Wind on the quarter.
10-- " abaft the beam.
11-- " abeam.
12-- " forward of the beam.
13--Close-hauled on starboard tack.
[Illustration: SPAR AND RIGGING PLAN OF CAT BOAT.]
_SPAR AND RIGGING PLAN OF CAT BOAT._
1--Hull.
2--Cabin house.
3--Main mast.
4-- " boom.
5-- " gaff.
6--Companionway or hatch.
7--Main sheet.
8--Topping lift.
9--Lazy jacks.
10--Peak halyards.
12-- " " bridle.
11--Throat "
13--Jaws of gaff.
15--Head stay.
16--Shroud.
17--Strut.
18--Bitts.
19--Cockpit.
[Illustration: SAIL PLAN OF CAT BOAT.]
_SAIL PLAN OF CAT BOAT._
1--Mainsail.
2-- " luff.
3-- " leach.
4-- " head.
5-- " foot.
6--Mainsail throat.
7-- " peak.
8-- " tack.
9-- " clew.
[Illustration: SPAR AND RIGGING PLAN OF POLE MAST SLOOP.]
_SPAR AND RIGGING PLAN OF SLOOP._
1--Freeboard.
2--Rail.
3--Mast.
4--Main boom.
5--Gaff.
6--Bowsprit.
7--Bobstay.
8--Strut.
9--Main sheet.
10--Peak halyards.
11--Throat "
12--Topping lift.
13--Lazy jacks.
14--Preventer or shifting backstay.
15--Gaff jaws.
16--Boom jaws or gooseneck.
17--Shroud to hounds.
18-- " to mast head.
19--Peak halyard bridle.
20--Fore stay.
21--Jib stay.
22--Fore staysail halyards.
23--Jib halyards.
24--Cockpit coaming.
[Illustration: SAIL PLAN OF POLE MAST SLOOP.]
_SAIL PLAN OF POLE MAST SLOOP._
1--Mainsail.
4-- " peak.
5-- " throat.
6-- " tack.
7-- " clew.
2--Fore staysail.
8-- " " head.
9--Fore staysail tack.
10-- " " clew.
3--Jib.
11-- " head.
12-- " tack.
13-- " clew.
[Illustration: SAIL PLAN OF TOPSAIL SLOOP.]
_SAIL PLAN OF TOPSAIL SLOOP._
1--Mainsail.
6-- " peak.
7-- " throat.
8-- " tack.
9-- " clew.
2--Fore staysail.
10-- " " head.
11-- " " tack.
12-- " " clew.
3--Jib.
13-- " head.
14--Jib tack.
15-- " clew.
4--Jib topsail.
16-- " " head.
17-- " " tack.
18-- " " clew.
5--Topsail.
19-- " head.
20-- " clew.
21-- " tack.
[Illustration: SPAR AND RIGGING PLAN OF YAWL.]
_SPAR AND RIGGING PLAN OF YAWL._
1--Hull.
2--Cabin house.
3--Cockpit rail or coaming.
4--Main mast.
5--Mizzen mast.
6--Main boom.
7-- " gaff.
8--Mizzen boom.
9-- " gaff.
10--Main sheet.
11--Mizzen "
12--Main peak halyards.
13--Main throat halyards.
14--Mizzen peak "
15-- " throat "
16--Main topping lift.
17--Mizzen " "
18--Main shrouds.
19--Mizzen "
20--Jib stay.
21-- " halyards.
22--Bowsprit.
23--Bobstay.
24--Boomkin.
25-- " stay.
[Illustration: SAIL PLAN OF YAWL.]
_SAIL PLAN OF YAWL._
1--Mainsail.
4-- " peak.
5-- " tack.
6-- " throat.
8-- " clew.
2--Mizzen.
9-- " peak.
10--Mizzen throat.
11-- " tack.
12-- " clew.
3--Jib.
13-- " head.
14-- " tack.
15-- " clew.
[Illustration: _SAIL PLAN OF KETCH._]
_SAIL PLAN OF KETCH._
1--Mainsail.
7-- " peak.
8-- " throat.
9-- " tack.
10-- " clew.
2--Mizzen.
11-- " peak.
12-- " throat.
13-- " tack.
14-- " clew.
3--Fore staysail.
15--" " head.
16--" " tack.
17--Fore staysail clew.
4--Jib.
18-- " head.
19-- " tack.
20-- " clew.
5--Jib topsail.
21-- " " head.
22-- " " tack.
23-- " " clew.
6--Topsail.
24-- " head.
25-- " clew.
26-- " tack.
[Illustration: SPAR AND RIGGING PLAN OF SCHOONER.]
_SPAR AND RIGGING PLAN OF SCHOONER._
1--Freeboard.
2--Rail.
3--Cabin house.
4--Wheel.
5--Fore hatch.
6-- " mast.
7-- " topmast.
8-- " truck.
9-- " doublings.
10--Main mast.
11-- " topmast.
12-- " truck.
13--Head of main mast and doublings.
14--Fore boom.
15-- " gaff.
16--Main boom.
17-- " gaff.
18--Fore sheet.
19-- " peak halyards.
20-- " throat "
21-- " peak halyard bridles.
22--Main sheet.
23-- " peak halyards.
24-- " throat "
25-- " peak halyard bridles.
26--Fore topping lift.
27--Main " "
28--Preventer backstay or runner.
29--Topmast preventer backstay.
30--Bowsprit.
31--Bobstay.
32--Fore stay.
33--Fore staysail halyards.
34--Jib stay.
35-- " halyards.
36-- " topsail stay.
37--" " halyards.
38--Triatic stay.
39--Spring stay.
40--Main topmast stay.
[Illustration: SAIL PLAN OF SCHOONER.]
_SAIL PLAN OF SCHOONER._
1--Mainsail.
9-- " peak.
10-- " throat.
11-- " tack.
12-- " clew.
2--Fore sail.
13-- " " peak.
14-- " " tack.
15-- " " clew.
3--Fore staysail.
16-- " " head.
17-- " " tack.
18-- " " clew.
4--Jib.
19-- " head.
20-- " tack.
21-- " clew.
5--Jib topsail.
22--" " head.
23--Jib topsail tack.
24-- " " clew.
6--Main topsail.
25-- " " head.
26-- " " clew.
27-- " " tack.
7--Fore topsail.
28-- " " head.
29-- " " clew.
8--Main topmast staysail.
30-- " " " head.
31--Upper tack.
32--Lower tack.
33--Clew.
_LIST OF BOOKS._
The following books are recommended to the young yachtsman. From them
he can obtain information of value, and a study of their pages will
materially aid him in gaining a thorough knowledge of the seaman's art:
On Yachts and Yacht Handling _Day_
Hints to Young Yacht Skippers _Day_
Small Boat Sailing _Knight_
Boat Sailor's Manual _Qualtrough_
Knots and Splices _Jutsum_
Canoe Handling _Vaux_
Elements of Navigation _Henderson_
How to Swim _Dalton_
THE RUDDER
The policy of THE RUDDER is to give to yachtsmen a thoroughly practical
periodical, dealing with the sport of yachting in all its phases,
and especially to furnish them with the designs and plans of vessels
adapted to their wants in all localities.
In each issue is a design of a sailing or power craft, and at
least four times a year a complete set of working drawings is
given, so that the unskilled can try a hand at building with a
certainty of making a success of the attempt.
In the last two years over 500 boats have been built from designs
printed in the magazine, and in almost every case have given
satisfaction.
Outside of the strictly practical, the magazine has always a cargo
of readable things in the way of cruises and tales, while its
illustrations are noted for their novelty and beauty.
The editor desires to increase the size of the magazine and to add
to its features. In order to do this it is necessary that it be
given the hearty support of all who are interested in the sport.
The cost of a subscription, $2 a year rolled or $2.50 mailed flat,
is as low as it is possible to make it and furnish a first-class
publication, and he asks yachtsmen to subscribe, as in that way
they can materially assist him in keeping the magazine up to its
present standard of excellence.
$2 a year rolled $2.50 a year flat
THE RUDDER PUBLISHING COMPANY
9 Murray Street, New York, U. S. A.
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RUDDER ON SERIES
On Yachts and Yacht Handling
BY THOMAS FLEMING DAY
The first volume of a series of technical books that will be an
invaluable addition to every yachtsman's library.
CONTENTS
[Illustration]
On Seamanship
On Boats in General
On One-Man Boats
On Seagoing Boats
On Sails as an Auxiliary
On Reefing
On Anchors and Anchoring
On Rigging
On Stranding
In this book Mr. Day has dropped all technical terms that are apt to
be confusing to the novice, and has made a simple explanation of the
handling and care of a boat. The book is written in a most interesting
way. The chapters on anchors alone is worth more than the price of the
book.
_Price_, =$1.00= _postpaid_
THE RUDDER PUBLISHING CO.
Nine Murray Street, New York, U. S. A.
Hints to Young
Yacht Skippers
By THOMAS FLEMING DAY
Hints on buying, rigging, keeping, handling, maneuvering, repairing,
canvasing and navigating small yachts and boats.
Experience compounded with common sense and offered in a condensed form.
Illustrated with drawings and plans.
Blue cloth, uniform in size to Rudder-ON-Series books.
Price =One Dollar= Prepaid
Send for complete Catalog of Books for The Yachtsman's Library
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CANOE HANDLING AND SAILING
BY C. BOWYER VAUX ("Dot")
The Canoe--history, uses, limitations and varieties; practical
management and care, and relative facts. New and revised edition
with additional matter.
Illustrated, cloth, 168 pages
=Price, postpaid, $1.00=
SMALL BOAT SAILING
By KNIGHT
A very readable and instructive book containing useful information of
all types of craft.
=Price, postpaid, $1.50=
YACHT SAILS AND HOW TO HANDLE THEM
By CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON
A comprehensive treatise on working and racing sail; how they are
made; the running rigging belonging to them; the manner in which
they are confined to there respective spars, stays, etc.; the way
they are bent and unbent, etc. A book as applicable for the small
boat as for the large yacht. It should be in the library of every
Corinthian sailor. Illustrated. Convenient size for the pocket.
=Price, postpaid, $1.00=
ELEMENTS OF YACHT DESIGN
By NORMAN L. SKENE, S. B.
A simple and satisfactory explanation of the art of designing yachts.
Contents--General Discussions, Methods of Calculations, Displacement,
The Lateral Plane, Design, Stability, Ballast, The Sail Plan,
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Fully Illustrated with Diagrams and Tables.
=Price, postpaid, $2.00=
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HOW TO SWIM
BY CAPT. DAVIS DALTON
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12mo., 120 pages
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ELEMENTS OF NAVIGATION
By W. J. HENDERSON
This little book, a very clever abridgement and complication of
the heavier works of several authorities, is one that has had
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is very clearly and very carefully written, and the explanations
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who fails to understand them. I have seen many books of this
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the lot, and I recommend it to those who are anxious to study
navigation.--EDITOR OF THE RUDDER.
=Price,
|
only, trust in God, and perchance the Imperial word will not
be put to shame through us." And thus did Platoff use crafty mental
shifts, and the men of Tula likewise.
Platoff shifted and shuffled, shifted and shuffled, and perceived,
at last, that to out-shift and out-shuffle a Tula man was beyond his
powers; so he gave them the snuff-box with the nymfozoria, and said:
"Well, there's nothing else to be done; be it according to your will.
I know you--what sort of fellows ye are--but there's nothing else to
be done; I trust you, only look to it that you will not exchange the
diamond, and will not spoil the delicate English work, and that you
will not be long about the job, for I travel fast; two weeks will not
have passed before I shall return from the quiet Don to Petrograd, and
then you must, without fail, let me have something to show to the
Emperor."
The gunsmiths reassured him fully.
"We will not injure the delicate work," said they, "and we will not
exchange the diamond, and two weeks is time enough for us; and against
that occasion of your return you shall have _something_ worthy to show
to the Emperor's Magnificence." But, all the same, they did not say
precisely what that _something_ was to be.
FOOTNOTE:
[19] An untranslatable word, but frequently rendered as "dear little
father." Count L. N. Tolstoy said to me that there were only two
genuine Russian titles--"_batiushka_" and "_matushka_." In ordinary
life, nowadays, they are the special titles of priests and their wives.
But the Tzar and Tzaritza are so called in ceremonious national songs,
and are so addressed, by peasants, as in the olden days.
VI
Platoff departed from Tula; and three of the gunsmiths, the most
skilful of them all--one a squint-eyed, left-handed smith with a
birth-mark on his cheek and the hair upon his temples plucked out
in the course of his apprenticeship--bade their comrades and their
households farewell, and saying nothing to any one, took their
wallets, placed therein the necessary food, and disappeared from the
town. The only point about them which was remarked was, that they did
not proceed towards the Moscow barrier, but in the opposite direction,
towards Kieff; and it was supposed that they had betaken themselves
to Kieff in order to do reverence to the departed Saints, or to take
counsel there with some of the living holy men who are always present
in Kieff, in vast abundance.
But this was only approximately true, not the truth itself. Neither the
time nor the distance allowed of the Tula artisans making the three
weeks' trip on foot to Kieff, and afterwards executing a piece of work
which should put the English nation to shame. Better would it have
been to go to Moscow, which is distant only "twice ninety versts," to
pray, since departed Saints not a few repose there, also. But in the
other direction, Oryol lies another "twice ninety versts," and from
Oryol to Kieff is a good five hundred versts more. Such a road is not
to be speedily traversed, and having traversed it, one recovers not
quickly--the feet will remain like glass, and the hands will tremble
for a long time thereafter.
Some persons even thought that the gunsmiths had been over-boastful in
the presence of Platoff, and that afterwards, when they had bethought
themselves, they had lost their courage, and had now decamped for good,
carrying off with them the imperial gold snuff-box, and the diamond,
and the English steel flea, which had caused them this trouble, in its
case.
But this supposition, also, was utterly without foundation, and
unworthy of the clever men upon whom the hope of the nation now rested.
VII
The men of Tula, clever fellows and well versed in the art of metals,
are also renowned as the finest judges in religious matters. Their fame
in this respect has filled not only their native land, but even holy
Mount Athos. They are not only experts at singing from the obscure
ancient notes, but they also know how the holy picture of "the evening
chime" should be painted; and if any one of them dedicates himself
to the great service and enters the monastic life, such men have the
reputation of making the best Monastery stewards, and they turn out
the most capable collectors. It is well known on holy Mount Athos that
the men of Tula are a most profitable race, and were it not for them,
many remote corners of Russia would, assuredly, never have beheld very
many of the sacred things of the Far East, and Athos would have been
deprived of many useful contributions from Russian bounty and piety.
Nowadays the "Athos Tulans" carry about sacred things throughout
the whole of our native land, and collect contributions in the most
masterly manner, even in places where there is nothing to be got.
The Tula man is full of ecclesiastical piety, and very knowing in
that line; therefore those three workmen who had undertaken to uphold
Platoff, and with him all Russia, committed no error in directing their
course not Moscow-wards but towards the South.
They were bound not for Kieff, but for Mtzensk, a county town in the
Government of Oryol, in which stands the ancient "stone-carved" holy
image of Saint Nikolai, which had floated thither, in the most remote
times, upon a great cross, also of stone, down the river Zusha. This
is a holy image "of menacing and most terrible aspect,"--the Prelate of
Myra-in-Lycia is therein depicted "full-length," all clad in vestments
of silver brocade, but dark of countenance; and in one hand he holds
a temple, in the other a sword--"symbolizing conquest." And precisely
in this "conquest" lies the whole gist of the matter. Saint Nikolai
is the Patron of mercantile and military matters in general, but the
"Nikolai of Mtzensk" is so in particular, and to him the men of Tula
hied them to pay their reverence. They caused a service of prayer to
be celebrated before the holy image itself, and then before the stone
cross, and at last they returned home, "by night," and telling no one
anything about it, they set to work with direful secrecy.
All three assembled in a small house belonging to the left-handed man,
locked the door, closed the shutters over the windows, lighted the
sacred lamp before the holy picture of Nikolai, and set to work.
One day, two days, three days they sat, and went out nowhere, but
kept tapping away with their little hammers. They were forging
something--but what they were forging, no one knew.
Every one was curious, but no one could find out, because the workers
said nothing and did not show themselves out of doors. Divers persons
went to the cottage, and knocked at the door, under various pretexts,
to ask for fire or salt; but the three artist-smiths unbolted for no
questions, and it was not even known on what food they subsisted. An
attempt was made to frighten them, and they were told that a house in
the vicinity was on fire--to see whether they would not run out in
their alarm, and then it would be revealed what they had forged; but
no one could entrap these cunning artisans. On that occasion only the
left-handed man did thrust himself out to the extent of his shoulders,
and shout: "Burn by yourselves, but we have no time!"--and thereupon he
hid his plucked pate again, clapped the shutter to, and proceeded with
his business.
Only, it could be seen through tiny cracks, that a small fire was
glowing in the house, and the delicate little hammers could be heard
tapping away on the resonant anvils.
In a word, the whole affair was conducted with such fearful secrecy
that it was impossible to find out anything at all, and, moreover, this
continued up to the very moment of Cossack Platoff's return from the
quiet Don to the Emperor; and during all that time these artisans saw
no one and talked with no one.
VIII
Platoff travelled very swiftly, and in state: he himself sat in the
calash, and on the box sat two Cossacks of the Imperial Suite[20] with
_nagaikas_,[21] one on each side of the coachman, whom they belabored
unmercifully, so that he should drive at a gallop. And if one of these
Cossacks fell into a doze, Platoff kicked him out of the calash,
and they drove on harder than ever. These means of encouragement
operated so efficaciously that it was impossible to bring the horses
to a halt at a single posting-station, and they always over-ran the
stopping-place by a hundred leaps. Then the Suite-Cossack would work
upon the coachman in the opposite quarter again, and they would return
to the entrance.
And in this same fashion did they roll into Tula; at first they flew a
hundred leaps beyond the Moscow barrier, and then the Cossack worked
upon the coachman in the opposite quarter, with his nagaika, and fresh
horses were put in at the porch.
Platoff did not alight from the calash himself, but merely commanded
a Suite-Cossack to bring to him, as speedily as possible, the
master-workman with whom he had left the flea.
One Suite-Cossack ran to make them fetch the work which was to put the
English to shame, as quickly as possible, and his Cossack had barely
departed when Platoff despatched after him courier after courier, that
all possible haste might be made.
When he had sent off all the Cossacks of the Suite on the run, he
began to despatch simple members of the curious public, and even
thrust his own legs out of the calash in his impatience, and was on the
point of rushing off himself, and fairly gnashed his teeth--everything
seemed so slow to him.
Such, at that time, was the demand that everything should be very
quick and exact, that not a single moment might be wasted to Russian
usefulness.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] By the transposition of a letter, the old armorer contrives to
call them "whistle-Cossacks."
[21] Cossack whip--really, the Tatar whip used by the Cossacks, and all
mountaineers, of the Tatar and Mongolian tribes. It is a short, thick,
round leather lash, all of one size, without a tapering tip.
IX
The Tula artisans, who had executed a marvellous bit of business,
had only just completed their work. The Cossacks of the Suite dashed
up to them breathless, and the simple members of the curious public
never arrived at all, because, through lack of practice, they flung
their feet widely over the road, and tumbled down, whereupon they fled
homewards, and hid themselves in the first place that offered, through
fear of encountering Platoff's eye.
But as soon as the Cossacks of the Suite rushed up, they instantly
began to shout, and when they saw that the men did not open to them,
they immediately proceeded to tear at the bolts and shutters, without
ceremony. But the bolts were so stout that they did not yield in the
least, and they wrenched at the door; but the door was backed up inside
by oaken bars. Then the Cossacks picked up a beam in the street, fixed
it under the roof-frame, after the fashion customary at conflagrations,
and tipped the whole roof off the little house at one toss. But no
sooner had they removed the roof than they instantly tumbled over
backwards themselves, for such a spiral[22] of sweat arose from the
artisans in their confined quarters, caused by their unresting toil,
that it was impossible for an unaccustomed man, coming directly from
the fresh air, to breathe it all at once.
The messengers shouted: "What are you doing, you scoundrels, you thus
and so? And how dare you to infect us with such a spiral, to boot?
After this, God is not with you!"
But they replied: "We will instantly drive in the last little nail, and
when that is in place, we will bring out our work."
But the messengers said: "He'll devour us alive before that time, and
leave not enough to remember our souls by."
But the gunsmiths replied: "He will not succeed in swallowing you,
because, lo! while you have been speaking we have already driven in
that last tiny nail. Run and say that we will bring it immediately."
The Suite-Cossacks ran, but not with confidence--they thought the
gunsmiths were deceiving them; therefore, while they ran as hard as
they could, they kept glancing back. But the workmen followed them, and
made such extreme haste that they did not manage to get their clothes
quite on, as was meet before presenting themselves to such an important
personage, but fastened the hooks of their kaftans as they ran. Two of
them had nothing in their hands, but the third, the left-handed man,
held the Imperial casket with the English steel flea, in a green case.
FOOTNOTE:
[22] Uneducated for "stench."
X
The Suite-Cossacks dashed up to Platoff and said: "Here they are
themselves!"
Platoff immediately addressed the artisans: "Ready?"
"Quite ready," they replied.
"Hand it over."
They gave it to him.
The carriage was already harnessed, and the coachman and the postillion
were in their places. The Cossacks immediately seated themselves beside
the coachman, and raised their whips over him, and, after executing a
flourish, held them so.
Platoff tore off the green case, opened the casket, drew the golden
snuff-box from the soft cotton, and from the snuff-box the diamond as
big as a walnut, and beheld the English flea lying there exactly as
before, and nothing else whatever.
Says Platoff: "What's this? And where is your work, wherewith you
wished to solace the Emperor?"
The gunsmiths reply: "Our work is here, also."
Platoff inquires: "Wherein does it consist?"
And the gunsmiths reply: "Why declare that? All is here, before your
eyes--and you can look."
Platoff shrugged his shoulders and shouted: "Where is the key to the
flea?"
"Here, also," they answered. "Where the flea is, there, also, is the
key, in one and the same walnut."
Platoff tried to grasp the key, but his fingers were blunt; he fumbled
and fumbled, but could not manage to get hold either of the flea, or
of the key which projected from the machinery in its belly, and all at
once he flew into a rage, and began to curse in words after the Cossack
fashion. He shouted: "What do you mean, you rascals? You have made
nothing, and have spoiled the whole thing, to boot! I'll cut your heads
off!"
But the men of Tula made reply: "Without cause do you thus abuse us. We
must suffer all insults from you, as from the Emperor's emissary, but
just because you have doubted us and have thought that we are capable
of deceiving even the Imperial name, we will not tell you our secret,
but you will please to carry it to the Emperor. He will see what sort
of people he has in us, and whether he will suffer shame because of us."
But Platoff roared: "Come, you are lying, you rascals! I'll not part
from you, but one of you shall go to Petrograd with me, and there I
will put him to the question as to the nature of your cunning devices."
Thereupon, he stretched out his hand, seized the squint-eyed,
left-handed smith by the collar with his stubby fingers, so that all
the hooks flew off the man's coat, and flung him at his feet in the
calash.
"Sit here," says he, "in the manner of a poodle, until we get to
Petrograd--you shall answer to me for all of them. And you," says he
to the Cossacks of the Suite, "whip up, there! Don't dawdle! See that
you get me to the Emperor in Petrograd the day after to-morrow."
The artisans merely ventured to say to him, on behalf of their comrade:
"How can you take him from us thus without a tugament?[23] He will not
be able to come back."
But Platoff, in place of answer, showed them his fist,--such a horrible
fist,--dark red and all slashed, seemingly grown together here and
there--and menacing them, he said: "Here's his tugament for you!"
And to the Cossacks he said: "Whip up, my lads!"
Cossacks, coachman, and horses all began to work simultaneously, and
bore away the left-handed man without his tugament; and the next day
but one, as Platoff had commanded, they whirled him up to the Emperor's
palace, and even, having over-galloped as was befitting, they drove
past the columns.
Platoff rose, fastened on his Orders, and went to the Emperor,
commanding the Cossacks of the Suite to stand guard at the entrance
over the squint-eyed, left-handed smith.
FOOTNOTE:
[23] Document--that is to say, passport; the usual peasant word is
"document."
XI
Platoff was afraid to present himself before the eyes of the Emperor,
because Nikolai Pavlovitch was a terribly remarkable man, with a
long memory--he never forgot anything. Platoff knew that he would,
infallibly, question him about the flea. And so he, who feared no
enemy in all the world, lost his courage there. He entered the palace
with the casket, and slily thrust it behind the stove in the hall.
Having thus concealed the casket, Platoff presented himself before the
Emperor in his study, and began, with all possible speed, to report the
internecine conversation of the Cossacks on the quiet Don. He reasoned
thus: that he would engage the Emperor's attention in this manner,
and then, if the Emperor himself remembered and mentioned the flea,
it would be necessary to hand it over and answer for it; but if the
Emperor should not refer to it, then he would hold his own tongue: he
would order the valet attached to the study to put the casket away out
of sight, and would confine the left-handed Tula man in a casemate of
the fortress for an indefinite period, and allow him to sit there until
he was needed.
But the Emperor Nikolai Pavlovitch had forgotten nothing, and Platoff
had barely terminated his internecine conversations, when he
immediately inquired: "Well, and how have my Tula artisans justified
themselves against the English nymfozoria?"
"The nymfozoria, Your Majesty," says he, "is still in the same space,
and I have brought it back, for the Tula artisans could make nothing
more marvellous."
The Emperor replied: "Thou art a valiant old man, but that which thou
hast just reported to me cannot be."
Platoff began to assure him, and related the whole course of the
matter; and when he had reached the point where the men of Tula
entreated him that the flea might be shown to the Emperor, Nikolai
Pavlovitch slapped him on the back and said: "Give it here! I know that
my own people cannot deceive me. Something beyond comprehension has
been done here."
XII
They fetched out the casket from behind the stove, removed its cloth
case, opened the golden snuff-box and the diamond walnut, and there lay
the flea, just as it had lain before.
The Emperor gazed and said: "How clever!" but his faith in the Russian
workmen was not diminished, and he ordered that his favorite daughter,
Alexandra Nikolaevna, be summoned, and commanded her: "Thou hast
delicate fingers on thy hands--take the little key and wind up the
belly machine of this nymfozoria as speedily as possible."
The Princess began to turn the key, and the flea instantly began to
move its feelers, but did not stir its legs. Alexandra Nikolaevna wound
up the whole machinery, but still the nymfozoria neither executed its
dance nor performed a single variation, as in former times.
Platoff turned all green, and cried; "Ah! the rascally dogs! Now I
understand why they would not tell me anything there. 'Tis well that I
fetched one of the fools along with me."
With these words, he rushed out upon the porch, seized the left-handed
man by the hair, and began to hurl him about hither and thither, until
the tufts flew. But when Platoff ceased to beat him, the man recovered
himself and said: "My hair has already been all pulled out, during
my apprenticeship, and now I do not know for what necessity such a
repetition has descended."
"'Tis because I had set my hopes upon you," said Platoff, "and had gone
surety for you, and you have spoiled a valuable thing."
The left-handed man replied: "We are greatly satisfied that you went
surety for us, but as for spoiling--we have spoiled nothing: take and
look through the very strongest melkoscope."
Platoff ran back, told about the melkoscope, and merely threatened the
left-handed man.
"I'll give it to you well, yet," says he, "you thus-and-thus-and-so!"
And he ordered the Cossacks of the Suite to fasten the left-handed
man's elbows still more strongly behind him, and himself mounted the
stairs, fuming and reciting a prayer in one breath: "Blessed Mother of
the Blessed King, pure, all-pure," and so on, as is proper. And all
the courtiers who were standing on the stairs turned away from him and
thought: "Platoff is caught, at last, and in a few moments he will be
driven from the palace,"--for they could not endure him on account of
his bravery.
XIII
When Platoff reported the left-handed man's words to the Emperor, the
latter instantly exclaimed with joy: "I knew that my Russian people
had not betrayed me!" and he ordered a melkoscope to be brought on a
cushion.
The melkoscope was brought that very minute, and the Emperor took the
flea, and placed it under the glass, first with its back, then with its
side, then with its belly upward,--in short, he turned it on all sides,
but nothing was to be seen. But even then the Emperor did not lose
faith, and said merely: "Bring hither instantly that gunsmith who is
downstairs."
Platoff announced: "His clothing must be changed. I took him just as he
was, and now he is in very evil plight."
But the Emperor replied: "Bring him just as he is."
Platoff said: "Here now, you thus-and-so, go yourself and make answer
before the eyes of the Emperor."
And the left-handed man replied: "Assuredly I will go and will make
answer."
So he goes, just as he is, in his voluminous trousers, one leg tucked
into his boot, the other flapping unrestrainedly, and his old kaftan,
whose hooks would not fasten because they were lost, and which had a
rent on the stomach; but he took no heed of this--he felt no confusion.
"What of it?" he said to himself. "If it pleases the Emperor to see me,
I must go; and if I have no tugament with me, I am not to blame, and I
will tell how the matter came about."
When the left-handed man entered and made his obeisance, the Emperor
immediately said to him: "What is the meaning of this, my good man,
that we have examined it thus and thus, and have placed it under the
melkoscope, and can descry nothing noteworthy?"
And the left-handed man replied: "Did Your Majesty deign to look at it
in the right way?"
The grandees made signs to him, "Don't speak so!" but he did not
understand that one must express one's self in the Court fashion,
flatteringly, or with craft, and he spoke simply.
The Emperor said: "Stop your prudent interference with him; let him
answer as he pleases."
And immediately he said to him: "This is the way we placed it," and
laid the flea under the melkoscope. "Look for yourself," said he,
"there is nothing to be seen."
The left-handed man replies: "In that manner it is impossible to see
anything, Your Majesty, because our work is far more secret, in
comparison with such proportions."
The Emperor asked: "But how, then, must one do it?"
"It is necessary," says he, "to bring only one of its feet, in detail,
under the melkoscope, and to scrutinize separately every heel wherewith
it walks."
"Really, you don't say so," says the Emperor. "That is very powerfully
small."
"It cannot be helped," replies the left-handed man, "if our work
is only to be observed thus; and then all the marvel of it will be
displayed."
They placed it as the left-handed man directed, and no sooner had the
Emperor peeped through the upper glass, than he fairly beamed all over,
took the left-handed man just as he was--unkempt, dusty, unwashed--into
his arms, embraced him, and kissed him, and then turned to all the
courtiers and said: "Do you see? I knew better than any one else that
my Russians would not fail me. Please to look, for these rascals have
shod the English flea with horse-shoes!"
XIV
All began to approach and look; the flea was actually shod with real
shoes on all its feet, and the left-handed man declared that even this
did not constitute the whole marvel.
"If you had a better melkoscope," said he, "which would magnify five
million times, then you might deign to perceive that the maker's name
is stamped upon each shoe."
"And is your name there?" asked the Emperor.
"Not at all," replies the left-handed man. "I worked at something finer
than those horse-shoes. I forged the tiny nails with which the shoes
are fastened on; for that no melkoscope whatever can be used."
The Emperor said: "Where is your melkoscope with which you could
produce this marvel?"
And the left-handed man replied: "We are poor folk, and because of our
poverty we have no melkoscope, but we have trained eyes."
Then other courtiers still, perceiving that the left-handed man's
case had proved auspicious, began to kiss him, and Platoff gave him a
hundred rubles and said: "Forgive me, good brother, for hauling you by
the hair."
The left-handed man replied: "God forgives[24]--this is not the first
time that that sort of thing has happened to me."
And he said no more, neither was there any time for him to speak at
length, for the Emperor commanded that this shod nymfozoria should
immediately be packed up and sent back to England, in the guise of
a gift, so that they might understand there that this was in no way
astonishing to us. And the Emperor ordered that a special Courier
should carry the flea, a man learned in all tongues, and that the
left-handed man should go with him, and that he himself should exhibit
his handiwork to the Englishmen, and show what workmen we have in Tula.
Platoff made the sign of the cross over him: "May a blessing rest upon
thee!" said he; "and I will send thee my own Caucasian vodka,--my
_kizlyarki_--for the journey. Drink not a little, drink not much, but
drink moderately."
And so he did--he sent it.
And Count Kiselvrode ordered that the left-handed man should be washed
in the Tulyakoff public bath, that his hair and beard should be
trimmed in a hairdresser's shop, and that he should be clothed in a
State kaftan taken from a Court singer,[25] so that he might make a
good appearance, and have some sort of rank conferred upon him.
When they had re-uniformed him in this manner, treated him to tea with
Platoff's vodka for the journey, and had drawn in his leather belt as
snugly as possible, in order that his bowels might not shake, they took
him to London. And there foreign things happened to the left-handed man.
FOOTNOTES:
[24] The genuine Russian form of saying, "I forgive you."
[25] It would be difficult to devise an outfit more comically unsuited
to the whole style and bearing of the squint-eyed, left-handed Tula
gunsmith. The kaftan of a Court singer (member of the Imperial Choir)
is made of cloth, the hue of an American Beauty rose, elaborately
trimmed with broad gold galloon. All Choristers' kaftans in Russia have
simulated angel-wings on the shoulders and back, as (in the language of
the Cherubimic Hymn in the Liturgy) they represent the Cherubim. The
leather belt is the crowning touch of absurdity.
XV
The Courier travelled so very swiftly with the left-handed man, that
they halted nowhere to rest between Petrograd and London, but merely
drew their belts tighter at every posting-station, so that their bowels
and their lungs might not get mixed up together; but, as an allowance
of liquor at will had been appointed to the left-handed man after his
interview with the Emperor, at Platoffs instance, he sustained himself
on that alone, without eating, and sang Russian songs all through
Europe, making only a refrain in foreign fashion, "Aï, people, _c'est
très juli_."[26]
As soon as the Courier brought him to London, he presented himself to
the proper persons and delivered the casket, but placed the left-handed
man in a chamber at a hotel; but there the latter speedily grew bored,
and felt a desire to eat. He knocked on the door, and pointed out
his mouth to the servant who waited on him, and the man immediately
conducted him to the food-reception room.
There the left-handed man seated himself at the table, and sat, and
sat; but how to ask for anything in English he did not know. But after
a while he found out. Again he simply tapped upon the table with his
finger, and pointed at his mouth; the Englishmen guessed, and served
him, only they did not always bring what he wanted, but he did not take
what did not suit him. They brought him a hot studing in fire[27] of
their preparation. Says he, "I know not whether that can be eaten,"
and he would not taste it; so they changed it, and brought him another
dish. And thus, also, he would not drink their brandy, because it was
green, as though mixed with copperas, but chose the most natural
things of all, and waited for the Courier in the coolness behind the
bottle-room.
And those persons to whom the Courier had delivered the nymfozoria
examined it that very moment with the most powerful melkoscopes,
and immediately put a description in the public news, so that an
announcement[28] of it might come to general notice on the following
day.
"And we wish to see that master-workman himself at once," said they.
The Courier led them to the chamber, and thence to the food-reception
room, where our left-handed man had already grown fairly red in the
face, and said: "Here he is!"
The Englishmen immediately began to clap the left-handed man on the
shoulder, _slap-slap_, and on the hands, as with an equal.
"Comrade," said they, "comrade,--good master,--we will talk with thee
hereafter, in due time, but now we will drink to thy success."
They called for a great deal of liquor, and gave the first glass to the
left-handed man, but he would not drink first: "Perhaps they wish to
poison me out of vexation," he thought.
"No," says he, "that is not proper etiquette. Even in Poland no one is
greater than the host--drink first yourselves."
The Englishmen tested all the liquors in his presence, and then began
to pour out for him. He rose, crossed himself with his left hand, and
drank to the health of them all.
They noticed that he crossed himself with his left hand, and asked the
Courier: "What is he--a Lutheran or a Protestant?"
The Courier replied: "No, he is neither a Lutheran nor a Protestant,
but of the Russian faith."
"But why does he cross himself with his left hand?"
The Courier said: "He's left-handed, and does everything with his left
hand."
The Englishmen began to be more amazed than ever, and set to pouring
liquor into the left-handed man and the Courier, and thus they went on
for three days, and then they said: "Now, that's enough."
But they took a symphony of water with airfixe, and having completely
freshened themselves up, they began to interrogate the left-handed man;
Where and what he had studied, and to what point he was acquainted with
arithmetic?
The left-handed man replied: "Our learning is single: we can read the
Psalter and the Polusonnik, but we know no arithmetic whatever."
The Englishmen exchanged glances and said: "This is astounding!"
But the left-handed man replied: "That's the way with us everywhere."
"But," they inquire, "what sort of a book in Russia is that
'Polusonnik'?"[29]
"That," says he, "is a book concerned with this--that if there is
anything touching on fortune-telling which King David has not clearly
set forth in the Psalter, then people are able to divine the completion
in the Polusonnik."
They say: "That's a pity; 't would be better if you knew at least the
four ordinary rules of arithmetic,--they would be far more useful
to you than the entire Polusonnik. Then you would be able to grasp
the fact that in every machine there is a calculation of powers, and
although you are very clever with your hands, you have not taken into
consideration that such a tiny machine as the nymfozoria is calculated
with the most exact accuracy, and that it cannot carry its shoes."
To that the left-handed man agreed. "As to that," says he, "there is
no dispute--that we have not gone in for science, but only we are
faithfully loyal to our Fatherland."
But the Englishmen say to him; "Stay with us, we will transmit to you
great instruction, and you will turn out a wonderful master-expert."
But to that the left-handed man did not agree: "I have parents at
home," says he.
The Englishmen offered to send his parents money, but the left-handed
man would not accept it.
"We," says he, "are devoted to our country, and my daddy is already an
old man, and my mother is an old woman, and they are used to going to
church in their own parish, and besides, I should be very lonely all
by myself, for I am still in the vocation of a bachelor."
"You'll get used to it," say they,--"accept our law[30] and we will
marry you off."
"That," replies the left-handed man, "can never be."
"Why so?"
"Because," he replies, "our Russian faith is the most correct, and as
the ancestors have believed, so, also, should the descendants believe."
"You do not know our faith," say the Englishmen; "we hold to the same
Christian law and the same Gospels."
"The Gospels," replies the left-handed man, "are, indeed, the same
among all, but our books are thicker than yours, and our faith is more
complete, also."
"How do you make
|
* * *
[Illustration: Erlkönig, by Moritz von Schwind]
* * * * *
15. GESANG DER GEISTER ÜBER DEN WASSERN
Des Menschen Seele
Gleicht dem Wasser:
Vom Himmel kommt es,
Zum Himmel steigt es,
Und wieder nieder 5
Zur Erde muß es,
Ewig wechselnd.
Strömt von der hohen,
Steilen Felswand
Der reine Strahl, 10
Dann stäubt er lieblich
In Wolkenwellen
Zum glatten Fels,
Und leicht empfangen,
Wallt er verschleiernd, 15
Leis rauschend
Zur Tiefe nieder.
Ragen Klippen
Dem Sturz entgegen,
Schäumt er unmutig 20
Stufenweise
Zum Abgrund.
Im flachen Bette
Schleicht er das Wiesental hin,
Und in dem glatten See 25
Weiden ihr Antlitz
Alle Gestirne.
Wind ist der Welle
Lieblicher Buhler;
Wind mischt vom Grund aus 30
Schäumende Wogen.
Seele des Menschen,
Wie gleichst du dem Wasser!
Schicksal des Menschen,
Wie gleichst du dem Wind! 35
* * * * *
16. GRENZEN DER MENSCHHEIT
Wenn der uralte
Heilige Vater
Mit gelassener Hand
Aus rollenden Wolken
Segnende Blitze 5
Über die Erde sät,
Küss' ich den letzten
Saum seines Kleides,
Kindliche Schauer
Treu in der Brust. 10
Denn mit Göttern
Soll sich nicht messen
Irgend ein Mensch.
Hebt er sich aufwärts
Und berührt 15
Mit dem Scheitel die Sterne,
Nirgends haften dann
Die unsichern Sohlen,
Und mit ihm spielen
Wolken und Winde. 20
Steht er mit festen,
Markigen Knochen
Auf der wohlgegründeten
Dauernden Erde:
Reicht er nicht auf, 25
Nur mit der Eiche
Oder der Rebe
Sich zu vergleichen.
Was unterscheidet
Götter von Menschen? 30
Daß viele Wellen
Vor jenen wandeln,
Ein ewiger Strom:
Uns hebt die Welle,
Verschlingt die Welle, 35
Und wir versinken.
Ein kleiner Ring
Begrenzt unser Leben,
Und viele Geschlechter
Reihen sich dauernd 40
An ihres Daseins
Unendliche Kette.
* * * * *
17. LIED DES TÜRMERS
Zum Sehen geboren,
Zum Schauen bestellt,
Dem Turme geschworen,
Gefällt mir die Welt.
Ich blick' in die Ferne, 5
Ich seh' in der Näh'
Den Mond und die Sterne,
Den Wald und das Reh.
So seh' ich in allen
Die ewige Zier, 10
Und wie mir's gefallen,
Gefall' ich auch mir.
Ihr glücklichen Augen,
Was je ihr gesehn,
Es sei, wie es wolle, 15
Es war doch so schön!
FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
18. DIE KRANICHE DES IBYKUS
Zum Kampf der Wagen und Gesänge,
Der auf Korinthus' Landesenge
Der Griechen Stämme froh vereint,
Zog Ibykus, der Götterfreund.
Ihm schenkte des Gesanges Gabe, 5
Der Lieder süßen Mund Apoll;
So wandert' er an leichtem Stabe
Aus Rhegium, des Gottes voll.
Schon winkt aus hohem Bergesrücken
Akrokorinth des Wandrers Blicken, 10
Und in Poseidons Fichtenhain
Tritt er mit frommem Schauder ein.
Nichts regt sich um ihn her; nur Schwärme
Von Kranichen begleiten ihn,
Die fernhin nach des Südens Wärme 15
In graulichtem Geschwader ziehn.
"Seid mir gegrüßt, befreundte Scharen,
Die mir zur See Begleiter waren;
Zum guten Zeichen nehm' ich euch,
Mein Los, es ist dem euren gleich: 20
Von fern her kommen wir gezogen
Und flehen um ein wirtlich Dach.
Sei uns der Gastliche gewogen.
Der von dem Fremdling wehrt die Schmach!"
Und munter fördert er die Schritte, 25
Und sieht sich in des Waldes Mitte;
Da sperren auf gedrangem Steg,
Zwei Mörder plötzlich seinen Weg.
Zum Kampfe muß er sich bereiten,
Doch bald ermattet sinkt die Hand, 30
Sie hat der Leier zarte Saiten,
Doch nie des Bogens Kraft gespannt.
Er ruft die Menschen an, die Götter,
Sein Flehen dringt zu keinem Retter;
Wie weit er auch die Stimme schickt, 35
Nichts Lebendes wird hier erblickt.
"So muß ich hier verlassen sterben,
Auf fremdem Boden, unbeweint,
Durch böser Buben Hand verderben,
Wo auch kein Rächer mir erscheint!" 40
Und schwer getroffen sinkt er nieder,
Da rauscht der Kraniche Gefieder;
Er hört, schon kann er nicht mehr sehn,
Die nahen Stimmen furchtbar krähn.
"Von euch, ihr Kraniche dort oben, 45
Wenn keine andre Stimme spricht,
Sei meines Mordes Klag' erhoben!"
Er ruft es, und sein Auge bricht.
Der nackte Leichnam wird gefunden,
Und bald, obgleich entstellt von Wunden, 50
Erkennt der Gastfreund in Korinth
Die Züge, die ihm teuer sind.
"Und muß ich so dich wiederfinden,
Und hoffte mit der Fichte Kranz
Des Sängers Schläfe zu umwinden, 55
Bestrahlt von seines Ruhmes Glanz!"
Und jammernd hören's alle Gäste,
Versammelt bei Poseidons Feste,
Ganz Griechenland ergreift der Schmerz,
Verloren hat ihn jedes Herz. 60
Und stürmend drängt sich zum Prytanen
Das Volk, es fodert seine Wut,
Zu rächen des Erschlagnen Manen,
Zu sühnen mit des Mörders Blut.
Doch wo die Spur, die aus der Menge, 65
Der Völker flutendem Gedränge,
Gelocket von der Spiele Pracht,
Den schwarzen Täter kenntlich macht?
Sind's Räuber, die ihn feig erschlagen?
Tat's neidisch ein verborgner Feind? 70
Nur Helios vermag's zu sagen,
Der alles Irdische bescheint.
Er geht vielleicht mit frechem Schritte
Jetzt eben durch der Griechen Mitte.
Und während ihn die Rache sucht, 75
Genießt er seines Frevels Frucht.
Auf ihres eignen Tempels Schwelle
Trotzt er vielleicht den Göttern, mengt
Sich dreist in jene Menschenwelle,
Die dort sich zum Theater drängt. 80
Denn Bank an Bank gedränget sitzen,
Es brechen fast der Bühne Stützen,
Herbeigeströmt von fern und nah',
Der Griechen Völker wartend da.
Dumpfbrausend wie des Meeres Wogen, 85
Von Menschen wimmelnd wächst der Bau
In weiter stets geschweiftem Bogen
Hinauf bis in des Himmels Blau.
Wer zählt die Völker, nennt die Namen,
Die gastlich hier zusammenkamen? 90
Von Kekrops' Stadt, von Aulis' Strand,
Von Phokis, vom Spartanerland,
Von Asiens entlegner Küste,
Von allen Inseln kamen sie,
Und horchen von dem Schaugerüste 95
Des Chores grauser Melodie,
Der, streng und ernst, nach alter Sitte
Mit langsam abgemeßnem Schritte
Hervortritt aus dem Hintergrund,
Umwandelnd des Theaters Rund. 100
So schreiten keine ird'schen Weiber!
Die zeugete kein sterblich Haus!
Es steigt das Riesenmaß der Leiber
Hoch über Menschliches hinaus.
Ein schwarzer Mantel schlägt die Lenden, 105
Sie schwingen in entfleischten Händen
Der Fackel düsterrote Glut,
In ihren Wangen fließt kein Blut.
Und wo die Haare lieblich flattern,
Um Menschenstirnen freundlich wehn, 110
Da sieht man Schlangen hier und Nattern
Die giftgeschwollnen Bäuche blähn.
Und schauerlich gedreht im Kreise,
Beginnen sie des Hymnus Weise,
Der durch das Herz zerreißend dringt, 115
Die Bande um den Sünder schlingt.
Besinnungraubend, herzbetörend
Schallt der Erinnyen Gesang.
Er schallt, des Hörers Mark verzehrend,
Und duldet nicht der Leier Klang: 120
"Wohl dem, der frei von Schuld und Fehle
Bewahrt die kindlich reine Seele!
Ihm dürfen wir nicht rächend nahn,
Er wandelt frei des Lebens Bahn.
Doch wehe, wehe, wer verstohlen 125
Des Mordes schwere Tat vollbracht!
Wir heften uns an seine Sohlen,
Das furchtbare Geschlecht der Nacht.
"Und glaubt er fliehend zn entspringen,
Geflügelt sind wir da, die Schlingen 130
Ihm werfend um den flücht'gen Fuß,
Daß er zu Boden fallen muß.
So jagen wir ihn ohn' Ermatten,
Versöhnen kann uns keine Reu',
Ihn fort und fort bis zu den Schatten, 135
Und geben ihn auch dort nicht frei."
So singend, tanzen sie den Reigen,
Und Stille, wie des Todes Schweigen,
Liegt überm ganzen Hause schwer,
Als ob die Gottheit nahe wär'. 140
Und feierlich nach alter Sitte
Umwandelnd des Theaters Rund
Mit langsam abgemeßnem Schritte,
Verschwinden sie im Hintergrnnd.
Und zwischen Trug und Wahrheit schwebet 145
Noch zweifelnd jede Brust und bebet,
Und huldiget der furchtbarn Macht,
Die richtend im Verborgnen wacht,
Die, unerforschlich, unergründet,
Des Schicksals dunkeln Knäuel flicht, 150
Dem tiefen Herzen sich verkündet,
Doch fliehet vor dem Sonnenlicht.
Da hört man auf den höchsten Stufen
Auf einmal eine Stimme rufen:
"Sieh da, sieh da, Timotheus, 155
Die Kraniche des Ibykus!"--
Und finster plötzlich wird der Himmel,
Und über dem Theater hin
Sieht man in schwärzlichtem Gewimmel
Ein Kranichheer vorüberziehn. 160
"Des Ibykus!" -- Der teure Name
Rührt jede Brust mit neuem Grame,
Und wie im Meere Well' auf Well',
So läuft's von Mund zu Munde schnell:
"Des Ibykus? den wir beweinen? 165
Den eine Mörderhand erschlug?
Was ist's mit dem? Was kann er meinen?
Was ist's mit diesem Kranichzug?"
Und lauter immer wird die Frage,
Und ahnend fliegt's mit Blitzesschlage 170
Durch alle Herzen: "Gebet acht,
Das ist der Eumeniden Macht!
Der fromme Dichter wird gerochen,
Der Mörder bietet selbst sich dar--
Ergreift ihn, der das Wort gesprochen, 175
Und ihn, an den's gerichtet war!"
Doch dem war kaum das Wort entfahren,
Möcht' er's im Busen gern bewahren;
Umsonst! der schreckenbleiche Mund
Macht schnell die Schuldbewußten kund. 180
Man reißt und schleppt sie vor den Richter,
Die Szene wird zum Tribunal,
Und es gestehn die Bösewichter,
Getroffen von der Rache Strahl.
* * * * *
19. DAS VERSCHLEIERTE BILD ZU SAIS
Ein Jüngling, den des Wissens heißer Durst
Nach Sais in Ägypten trieb, der Priester
Geheime Weisheit zu erlernen, hatte
Schon manchen Grad mit schnellem Geist durcheilt;
Stets riß ihn seine Forschbegierde weiter, 5
Und kaum besänftigte der Hierophant
Den ungeduldig Strebenden. "Was hab ich,
Wenn ich nicht alles habe?" sprach der Jüngling.
"Gibt's etwa hier ein Weniger und Mehr?
Ist deine Wahrheit wie der Sinne Glück 10
Nur eine Summe, die man größer, kleiner
Besitzen kann und immer doch besitzt?
Ist sie nicht eine einz'ge, ungeteilte?
Nimm Einen Ton aus einer Harmonie,
Nimm Eine Farbe aus dem Regenbogen, 15
Und alles, was dir bleibt, ist nichts, solang'
Das schöne All der Töne fehlt und Farben."
Indem sie einst so sprachen, standen sie
In einer einsamen Rotonde still,
Wo ein verschleiert Bild von Riesengröße 20
Dem Jüngling in die Augen fiel. Verwundert
Blickt er den Führer an und spricht: "Was ist's,
Das hinter diesem Schleier sich verbirgt?"--
"Die Wahrheit", ist die Antwort.--"Wie?" ruft jener,
"Nach Wahrheit streb ich ja allein, und diese 25
Gerade ist es, die man mir verhüllt?"
"Das mache mit der Gottheit aus", versetzt
Der Hierophant. "Kein Sterblicher, sagt sie,
Rückt diesen Schleier, bis ich selbst ihn hebe.
Und wer mit ungeweihter, schuld'ger Hand 30
Den heiligen, verbotnen früher hebt,
Der, spricht die Gottheit"--"Nun?"--"Der _sieht_ die Wahrheit."
"Ein seltsamer Orakelspruch! Du selbst,
Du hättest also niemals ihn gehoben?"
"Ich?--Wahrlich nicht! Und war auch nie dazu 35
Versucht."--"Das fass' ich nicht. Wenn von der Wahrheit
Nur diese dünne Scheidewand mich trennte"--
"Und ein Gesetz", fällt ihm sein Führer ein,
"Gewichtiger, mein Sohn, als du es meinst,
Ist dieser dünne Flor--für deine Hand 40
Zwar leicht, doch zentnerschwer für dein Gewissen."
Der Jüngling ging gedankenvoll nach Hause;
Ihm raubt des Wissens brennende Begier
Den Schlaf, er wälzt sich glühend auf dem Lager
Und rafft sich auf um Mitternacht. Zum Tempel 45
Führt unfreiwillig ihn der scheue Tritt.
Leicht ward es ihm, die Mauer zu ersteigen,
Und mitten in das Innre der Rotonde
Trägt ein beherzter Sprung den Wagenden.
Hier steht er nun, und grauenvoll umfängt 50
Den Einsamen die lebenlose Stille,
Die nur der Tritte hohler Widerhall
In den geheimen Grüften unterbricht.
Von oben durch der Kuppel Öffnung wirft
Der Mond den bleichen, silberblauen Schein, 55
Und furchtbar wie ein gegenwärt'ger Gott
Erglänzt durch des Gewölbes Finsternisse
In ihrem langen Schleier die Gestalt.
Er tritt hinan mit ungewissem Schritt;
Schon will die freche Hand das Heilige berühren, 60
Da zuckt es heiß und kühl durch sein Gebein
Und stößt ihn weg mit unsichtbarem Arme.
Unglücklicher, was willst du tun? So ruft
In seinem Innern eine treue Stimme.
Versuchen den Allheiligen willst du? 65
Kein Sterblicher, sprach des Orakels Mund,
Rückt diesen Schleier, bis ich selbst ihn hebe.
Doch, setzte nicht derselbe Mund hinzu:
Wer diesen Schleier hebt, soll Wahrheit schauen?
"Sei hinter ihm, was will! Ich heb ihn auf." 70
Er rufts mit lauter Stimm'. "Ich will sie schauen."
Schauen!
Gellt ihm ein langes Echo spottend nach.
Er spricht's und hat den Schleier aufgedeckt.
"Nun", fragt ihr, "und was zeigte sich ihm hier?" 75
Ich weiß es nicht. Besinnungslos und bleich,
So fanden ihn am andern Tag die Priester
Am Fußgestell der Isis ausgestreckt.
Was er allda gesehen und erfahren,
Hat seine Zunge nie bekannt. Auf ewig 80
War seines Lebens Heiterkeit dahin,
Ihn riß ein tiefer Gram zum frühen Grabe.
"Weh dem", dies war sein warnungsvolles Wort,
Wenn ungestüme Frager in ihn drangen,
"Weh dem, der zu der Wahrheit geht durch Schuld, 85
Sie wird ihm nimmermehr erfreulich sein!"
LUDWIG UHLAND
20. DIE LERCHEN
Welch ein Schwirren, welch ein Flug?
Sei willkommen, Lerchenzug!
Jene streift der Wiese Saum,
Diese rauschet durch den Baum.
Manche schwingt sich himmelan, 5
Jauchzend auf der lichten Bahn;
Eine, voll von Liedeslust,
Flattert hier in meiner Brust.
* * * * *
21. DES KNABEN BERGLIED
Ich bin vom Berg der Hirtenknab',
Seh' auf die Schlösser all herab;
Die Sonne strahlt am ersten hier,
Am längsten weilet sie bei mir;
Ich bin der Knab' vom Berge! 5
Hier ist des Stromes Mutterhaus,
Ich trink' ihn frisch vom Stein heraus;
Er braust vom Fels in wildem Lauf,
Ich fang' ihn mit den Armen auf;
Ich bin der Knab' vom Berge! 10
Der Berg, der ist mein Eigentum,
Da ziehn die Stürme rings herum;
Und heulen sie von Nord und Süd,
So überschallt sie doch mein Lied:
Ich bin der Knab' vom Berge! 15
Sind Blitz und Donner unter mir,
So steh' ich hoch im Blauen hier;
Ich kenne sie und rufe zu:
Laßt meines Vaters Haus in Ruh'!
Ich bin der Knab' vom Berge! 20
Und wann die Sturmglock' einst erschallt,
Manch Feuer auf den Bergen wallt,
Dann steig' ich nieder, tret' ins Glied
Und schwing' mein Schwert und sing' mein Lied:
Ich bin der Knab' vom Berge! 25
* * * * *
22. SCHÄFERS SONNTAGSLIED
Das ist der Tag des Herrn!
Ich bin allein auf weiter Flur;
Noch _eine_ Morgenglocke nur,
Nun Stille nah und fern.
Anbetend knie' ich hier. 5
O süßes Graun, geheimes Wehn,
Als knieten viele ungesehn
Und beteten mit mir!
Der Himmel nah und fern,
Er ist so klar und feierlich, 10
So ganz, als wollt' er öffnen sich.
Das ist der Tag des Herrn!
* * * * *
23. DIE KAPELLE
Droben stehet die Kapelle,
Schauet still ins Tal hinab,
Drunten singt bei Wies' und Quelle
Froh und hell der Hirtenknab'.
Traurig tönt das Glöcklein nieder, 5
Schauerlich der Leichenchor;
Stille sind die frohen Lieder,
Und der Knabe lauscht empor.
Droben bringt man sie zu Grabe,
Die sich freuten in dem Tal; 10
Hirtenknabe, Hirtenknabe!
Dir auch singt man dort einmal.
* * * * *
24. MORGENLIED
Noch ahnt man kaum der Sonne Licht,
Noch sind die Morgenglocken nicht
Im finstern Tal erklungen.
Wie still des Waldes weiter Raum!
Die Vöglein zwitschern nur im Traum, 5
Kein Sang hat sich erschwungen.
Ich hab' mich längst ins Feld gemacht
Und habe schon dies Lied erdacht
Und hab' es laut gesungen.
* * * * *
25. FRÜHLINGSGLAUBE
Die linden Lüfte sind erwacht,
Sie säuseln und weben Tag und Nacht,
Sie schaffen an allen Enden.
O frischer Duft, o neuer Klang!
Nun, armes Herze, sei nicht bang! 5
Nun muß sich alles, alles wenden.
Die Welt wird schöner mit jedem Tag,
Man weiß nicht, was noch werden mag,
Das Blühen will nicht enden.
Es blüht das fernste, tiefste Tal; 10
Nun, armes Herz, vergiß der Qual!
Nun muß sich alles, alles wenden.
* * * * *
26. LOB DES FRÜHLINGS
Saatengrün, Veilchenduft,
Lerchenwirbel, Amselschlag,
Sonnenregen, linde Luft!
Wenn ich solche Worte singe,
Braucht es dann noch großer Dinge, 5
Dich zu preisen, Frühlingstag?
* * * * *
27. DAS SCHWERT
Zur Schmiede ging ein junger Held,
Er hatt' ein gutes Schwert bestellt;
Doch als er's wog in freier Hand,
Das Schwert er viel zu schwer erfand.
Der alte Schmied den Bart sich streicht: 5
"Das Schwert ist nicht zu schwer noch leicht,
Zu schwach ist Euer Arm, ich mein';
Doch morgen soll geholfen sein."
"Nein, heut, bei aller Ritterschaft!
Durch meine, nicht durch Feuers Kraft." 10
Der Jüngling spricht's, ihn Kraft durchdringt,
Das Schwert er hoch in Lüften schwingt.
* * * * *
28. DIE RACHE
Der Knecht hat erstochen den edeln Herrn,
Der Knecht wär' selber ein Ritter gern.
Er hat ihn erstochen im dunkeln Hain
Und den Leib versenket im tiefen Rhein.
Hat angeleget die Rüstung blank, 5
Auf des Herren Roß sich geschwungen frank.
Und als er sprengen will über die Brück',
Da stutzet das Roß und bäumt sich zurück.
Und als er die güldnen Sporen ihm gab,
Da schleudert's ihn wild in den Strom hinab. 10
Mit Arm, mit Fuß er rudert und ringt,
Der schwere Panzer ihn niederzwingt.
* * * * *
29. DER WIRTIN TÖCHTERLEIN
Es zogen drei Bursche wohl üher den Rhein,
Bei einer Frau Wirtin, da kehrten sie ein:
"Frau Wirtin, hat Sie gut Bier und Wein?
Wo hat Sie Ihr schönes Töchterlein?"
"Mein Bier und Wein ist frisch und klar. 5
Mein Töchterlein liegt auf der Totenbahr'."
Und als sie traten zur Kammer hinein,
Da lag sie in einem schwarzen Schrein.
Der erste, der schlug den Schleier zurück
Und schaute sie an mit traurigem Blick: 10
"Ach, lebtest du noch, du schöne Maid!
Ich würde dich lieben von dieser Zeit."
Der zweite deckte den Schleier zu,
Und kehrte sich ab und weinte dazu:
"Ach, daß du liegst auf der Totenbahr'! 15
Ich hab' dich geliebet so manches Jahr."
Der dritte hub ihn wieder sogleich
Und küßte sie an den Mund so bleich:
"Dich liebt' ich immer, dich lieb' ich noch heut
Und werde dich lieben in Ewigkeit." 20
* * * * *
30. DER GUTE KAMERAD
Ich hatt' einen Kameraden,
Einen bessern findst du nit
Die Trommel schlug zum Streite,
Er ging an meiner Seite
In gleichem Schritt und Tritt. 5
Eine Kugel kam geflogen;
Gilt's mir oder gilt es dir?
Ihn hat es weggerissen,
Er liegt mir vor den Füßen,
Als wär's ein Stück von mir. 10
Will mir die Hand noch reichen,
Derweil ich eben lad':
"Kann dir die Hand nicht geben;
Bleib du im ew'gen Leben
Mein guter Kamerad!" 15
* * * * *
31. TAILLEFER
Normannenherzog Wilhelm sprach einmal:
"Wer singet in meinem Hof und in meinem Saal?
Wer singet vom Morgen bis in die späte Nacht
So lieblich, daß mir das Herz im Leibe lacht?"
"Das ist der Taillefer, der so gerne singt 5
Im Hofe, wenn er das Rad am Brunnen schwingt,
Im Saale, wann er das Feuer schüret und facht,
Wann er abends sich legt und wann er morgens erwacht."
Der Herzog sprach: "Ich hab' einen guten Knecht,
Den Taillefer; der dienet mir fromm und recht, 10
Er treibt mein Rad und schüret mein Feuer gut
Und singet so hell; das höhet mir den Mut."
Da sprach der Taillefer: "Und wär' ich frei,
Viel besser wollt' ich dienen und singen dabei.
Wie wollt' ich dienen dem Herzog hoch zu Pferd! 15
Wie wollt' ich singen und klingen mit Schild und mit Schwert!"
Nicht lange, so ritt der Taillefer ins Gefild
Auf einem hohen Pferde mit Schwert und mit Schild.
Des Herzogs Schwester schaute vom Turm ins Feld;
Sie sprach: "Dort reitet, bei Gott, ein stattlicher Held." 20
Und als er ritt vorüber an Fräuleins Turm,
Da sang er bald wie ein Lüstlein, bald wie ein Sturm.
Sie sprach: "Der singet, das ist eine herrliche Lust;
Es zittert der Turm, und es zittert mein Herz in der Brust."
Der Herzog Wilhelm fuhr wohl über das Meer, 25
Er fuhr nach Engelland mit gewaltigem Heer.
Er sprang vom Schiffe, da fiel er auf die Hand;
"Hei," rief er, "ich fass' und ergreife dich, Engelland!"
Als nun das Normannenheer zum Sturme schritt,
Der edle Taillefer vor den Herzog ritt: 30
"Manch Jährlein hab' ich gesungen und Feuer geschürt,
Manch Jährlein gesungen und Schwert und Lanze gerührt.
"Und hab' ich Euch gedient und gesungen zu Dank,
Zuerst als ein Knecht und dann als ein Ritter frank,
So laßt mich das entgelten am heutigen Tag, 35
Vergönnet mir auf die Feinde den ersten Schlag!"
Der Taillefer ritt vor allem Normannenheer
Aus einem hohen Pferde mit Schwert und mit Speer;
Er sang so herrlich, das klang über Hastingsfeld;
Von Roland sang er und manchem frommen Held. 40
Und als das Rolandslied wie ein Sturm erscholl,
Da wallete manch Panier, manch Herze schwoll,
Da brannten Ritter und Mannen von hohem Mut;
Der Taillefer sang und schürte das Feuer gut.
Dann sprengt' er hinein und führte den ersten Stoß, 45
Davon ein englischer Ritter zur Erde schoß;
Dann schwang er das Schwert und führte den ersten Schlag,
Davon ein englischer Ritter am Boden lag.
Normannen sahen's, die harrten nicht allzulang,
Sie brachen herein mit Geschrei und mit Schilderklang. 50
Hei, sausende Pfeile, klirrender Schwerterschlag!
Bis Harald fiel und sein trotziges Heer erlag.
Herzog Wilhelm steckte sein Banner aufs blutige Feld,
Inmitten der Toten spannt' er sein Gezelt;
Da saß er am Mahle, den goldnen Pokal in der Hand, 55
Auf dem Haupte die Königskrone von Engelland:
"Mein tapfrer Taillefer, komm! trink mir Bescheid!
Du hast mir viel gesungen in Lieb' und in Leid;
Doch heut im Hastingsfelde dein Sang und dein Klang,
Der tönet mir in den Ohren mein Leben lang." 60
* * * * *
32. DES SÄNGERS FLUCH
Es stand in alten Zeiten ein Schloß, so hoch und hehr,
Weit glänzt es üher die Lande his an das blaue Meer,
Und rings von duft'gen Gärten ein blütenreicher Kranz,
Drin sprangen frische Brunnen in Regenbogenglanz.
Dort saß ein stolzer König, an Land und Siegen reich, 5
Er saß auf seinem Throne so finster und so bleich;
Denn was er sinnt, ist Schrecken, und was er blickt, ist Wut,
Und was er spricht, ist Geißel, und was er schreibt, ist Blut.
Einst zog nach diesem Schlosse ein edles Sängerpaar,
Der ein' in goldnen Locken, der andre grau von Haar; 10
Der Alte mit der Harfe, der saß auf schmuckem Roß,
Es schritt ihm frisch zur Seite der blühende Genoß.
Der Alte sprach zum Jungen: "Nun sei bereit, mein Sohn!
Denk unsrer tiefsten Lieder, stimm an den vollsten Ton!
Nimm alle Kraft zusammen, die Lust und auch den Schmerz! 15
Es gilt uns heut, zu rühren des Königs steinern Herz."
Schon stehn die beiden Sänger im hohen Säulensaal,
Und auf dem Throne sitzen der König und sein Gemahl,
Der König furchtbar prächtig wie blut'ger Nordlichtschein,
Die Königin süß und milde, als blickte Vollmond drein. 20
Da schlug der Greis die Saiten, er schlug sie wundervoll,
Daß reicher, immer reicher der Klang zum Ohre schwoll;
Dann strömte himmlisch helle des Jünglings Stimme vor,
Des Alten Sang dazwischen wie dumpfer Geisterchor.
Sie singen von Lenz und Liebe, von sel'ger goldner Zeit, 25
Von Freiheit, Männerwürde, von Treu' und Heiligkeit,
Sie singen von allem Süßen, was Menschenbrust durchbebt,
Sie singen von allem Hohen, was Menschenherz erhebt.
Die Höflingsschar im Kreise verlernet jeden Spott,
Des Königs trotz'ge Krieger, sie beugen sich vor Gott; 30
Die Königin, zerflossen in Wehmut und in Lust,
Sie wirft den Sängern nieder die Rose von ihrer Brust.
"Ihr habt mein Volk verführet; verlockt ihr nun mein Weib?"
Der König schreit es wütend, er bebt am ganzen Leib;
Er wirft sein Schwert, das blitzend des Jünglings Brust 35
durchdringt,
Draus statt der goldnen Lieder ein Blutstrahl hoch aufspringt.
Und wie vom Sturm zerstoben ist all der Hörer Schwarm.
Der Jüngling hat verröchelt in seines Meisters Arm;
Der schlägt um ihn den Mantel und setzt ihn auf das Roß,
Er bind't ihn aufrecht feste, verläßt mit ihm das Schloß. 40
Doch vor dem hohen Tore, da hält der Sängergreis
Da faßt er seine Harfe, sie, aller Harfen Preis,
An einer Marmorsäule, da hat er sie zerschellt;
Dann ruft er, daß es schaurig durch Schloß und Gärten gellt:
"Weh euch, ihr stolzen Hallen! Nie töne süßer Klang 45
Durch eure Räume wieder, nie Saite noch Gesang,
Nein, Seufzer nur und Stöhnen und scheuer Sklavenschritt,
Bis euch zu Schutt und Moder der Rachegeist zertritt!
"Weh euch, ihr duft'gen Gärten im holden Maienlicht!
Euch zeig' ich dieses Toten entstelltes Angesicht, 50
Daß ihr darob verdorret, daß jeder Quell versiegt,
Daß ihr in künft'gen Tagen versteint, verödet liegt.
"Weh dir, verruchter Mörder! du Fluch des Sängertums!
Umsonst sei all dein Ringen nach Kränzen blut'gen Ruhms!
Dein Name sei vergessen, in ew'ge Nacht getaucht, 55
Sei wie ein letztes Röcheln in leere Luft verhaucht!"
Der Alte hat's gerufen, der Himmel hat's gehört,
Die Mauern liegen nieder, die Hallen sind zerstört;
Noch _eine_
|
empire, he might have followed Dante and Milton from lyric beauty to epic
sublimity, or might have risen with Shakespeare and Molière from song to
comedy or even to tragedy, but his hedonistic sleekness and his excessive
self-consciousness kept his ripened philosophy in brief letters, when a
more vigorous mentality with the help of philosophy might have converted
his ennobled power of satire into comedy or transformed the lyric
portraits of his early days into tragedy or epic story.
II
ART AND THE INDIVIDUAL
2. VAGARIES OF INDIVIDUALISM
Modern art has not followed Horace very far. It has broken with
conventionality as Horace did with the _clichés_ of Alexandria, but it
has not yet entered upon the path of right philosophy. The _Spoon River
Anthology_, a typical specimen from the individualistic school of what
might be called localists or village gossips, is in the epode-stage of
Horace, the stage of personalities, lubricity and garlic gruesomeness.
Hopes might be entertained that _Spoon River_ and _Main Street_ and other
individualistic photographs would progressively improve with Horace
except for one sad deficiency: Horace had humor and laughed at others,
and even at himself; modern individualists are so heavily armored with
the seriousness of their own views, that they don’t even smile. To
imagine the New Art laughing is impossible; if the New Art had humor
and laughed, it would cease to be New Art and would join the larger
brotherhood of art uncapitalized. Had the new artists a sense of humor,
it would probably be their death sentence. In the course of time they
might catch sight of their own art products, whether of painting or of
poetry.
Is it not an indication of individualism that so many recent novels are
biographies, that the stage is not holding up the mirror to life but
applying the scalpel to an ulcer? The biography or personal views of
Scott and Shakespeare cannot be discovered in their works. The modern
pamphleteer distributes his paradoxes among various mouthpieces whose
only difference is in name, and this is called a play, when it is in
reality propaganda. There are probably now no less than 100,000 college
graduates turning college escapades and flirtations into chapters,
which their authors consider typical of life because the incidents
were individually experienced. And, as the long stories of the day are
biographies or problems and as the drama is a diagnosis of diseases,
in the same way many of the short stories are pathological, but all
are tending to be individualistic. The artist makes his own subjective
experience the full measure of his artistic expression and seems to
imagine that his own peculiarities are good art because he sincerely
expresses what he feels. Individual nature is not human nature.
Aristotle has described poetry as the universal in the concrete. The
“new poets” give the individual in the concrete. Homer, Shakespeare, the
true poets, plumb to the depths of the human heart; they voice ripened
experience and enshrine mellow wisdom, and so appeal to all men of all
times. Much of the new poetry ostentatiously disdains tradition and
rejects the wisdom of the ages in discarding its dress. You may see the
rouge on the cheek and the freckle on the nose, but as far as life and
experience and heart are concerned, most of the new poetry is pitiably
young and callous. Meticulous recording of disconnected and unrelated
novelties is no adequate substitute for the warmth and depth of life
crystallized by the ardent gaze of the true poet out of his experience.
New poetry is contemporaneous with the invention and use of the Kodak and
has all the responsibility and profundity of that instrument.
Individualism has come to such a pass in modern art that everything in
it is resolving itself into pure emotionalism, and that an emotionalism
which does not belong to art at all. Degenerates are the products of
civilization; they are decayed exotics. “The higher the organism, the
more noisome the decay,” a science professor used to say when paying
his respects to diseased metaphysics. As only a believer can blaspheme
luridly, so when an artist goes wrong, he goes wrong hideously. A
pistol in the hands of a marksman gone mad is more destructive than in
the hands of a savage. Colors, sounds, shapes, fair words and gorgeous
imaginings are instruments of degradation and death if they are a finer
veneer over what is false. Individual vagaries and whims, no matter how
unusual, will not have the permanence of art because they are based on no
principles, but devised simply to startle. Degrade the appeal of beauty
to a spinal thrill and your artist will pander to concupiscence.
It is noteworthy that Homer’s worst lapse in story-telling takes place
among the luxurious Phæacians, ancient prototypes of degeneracy. Homer
may have felt justified artistically because he was depicting the
non-Grecian world through whose monsters and marvels Odysseus was passing
and making the first collection of sailors’ yarns. But Homer shocked even
the pagan world and set an unhappy precedent. Lucian and Ovid, Petronius
and Apuleius and the Byzantine eroticists made what was incidental in
Homer their chief concern and practice. They perverted fiction into
calculated suggestiveness.
That depraved and sensual theory of story-telling was, however, more
Aristophanic than Homeric, despite the single unfortunate precedent in
the _Odyssey_. The tradition of Greek and Latin comedy was carried on
by the medieval troubadours and by the story-tellers who catered to the
decadent nobility of Italy and France. They retorted on their clerical
censors and stimulated jaded appetites, substituting in shameless
intrigues priests and nuns for the pagan gods. It was and is the glory
of Scott that he broke away from these evil traditions which made the
novel a hateful thing to our forefathers. Scott deserted the continental
school of novelists and their English imitators, Fielding, Sterne,
Smollett, the last of all Byron. Scott gave up the satirical purposes
which handed on in fiction the vulgar devices of low comedy. He went to
history, to chivalry, to healthy men and women and created romances, not
pathological studies. English, Irish and American fiction for a whole
century yielded to the healthy and bracing impulse of Scott, but the
younger novelists in vogue today in England, Ireland and America have
gone back to the continental type, individual, pathological biographical
problems, forsaking Scott’s revival through balladry of the best Homeric
manner, where men “drank delight of battle with their peers far on the
ringing plains of Troy.”
The individualist must emancipate himself by the contemplation of nature.
Pathological specimens, freakish oddities, all the surface impressions of
the local colorists are not nature any more than a face contorted with a
toothache is a man’s likeness. Such exceptional exhibitions cannot form
the enduring basis of art. Personal experience must be widened by length
of time, by merging into the stream of wisdom, flowing freighted from the
past, or must, in exceptional cases, be won quickly by that intense and
probing comprehension of genius, which seems almost Divine intuition.
Excessive individualism, like the latest fashion, will be quaint and
incongruous on the morrow. Homer lives eternal because through strange
names and strange language and strange costumes we see our own sun and
fields and ocean and sky and put our fingers on a pulse which registers
the beat of a heart throbbing as ours.
III
ART AND HUMAN NATURE
1. THE UNIVERSAL ELEMENT
A serious defect in most modern art movements is that they start from
art; they are modifications of previous art movements. True art movements
start from human nature. When perfection in any art is standardized, when
tradition and conventionality prevail, and the artist has originality
enough to chafe at the restraints of classicism but not originality
enough to reveal finer ideals through classic expression, his temptation
is to rebel at conventionalities and to deem himself original because he
is unconventional. He wishes to be different from other artists and seeks
for the difference by discarding the traditional medium rather than by
improving his own personal message. He prefers to be different and even
original by cutting his ginger-bread into the shape of automobiles and
air-planes instead of going back to mother’s classic make and blending
his ingredients into a new creation, a creation which will make fresh
appeal even in former animal shapes or in the traditional ginger-bread
cart-wheels.
Art is a social institution. If not by the people, art is of the people,
and certainly for the people. When Greek literary art grew conventional
in its different forms, the artists went back to the people for another
medium to be transfigured by art. Ruskin has called architecture a
“glorified roof.” The sonata is a glorified folk melody; epic is
glorified folk lore; and Greek drama is a glorified folk song, as
Elizabethan drama is a glorified folk chronicle. Both dramas have their
roots in the religious services of the people. Homer told us about the
public he had, but the nineteenth century would not trust his word until
Schliemann dug up the great halls where Demodokos and his fellows told
the people their own folk stories in a glorified, artistic form. Greek
lyric and Greek pastoral were as public as Greek oratory, Greek choruses,
temples and statuary. It was left for Roman conquerors to begin the
segregation of art into the cold storage of the modern millionaire and of
the modern museum.
The permanence of Greek art is based upon that public appeal. Art is
long because it embodies nature, and most of all human nature. Homer
has appealed to man, woman and child for thousands of years. His human
nature is our human nature despite external differences of every
kind. Homer himself was aware of the appeal of nature in art. On the
shield of Achilles, he marveled at the field which grew black behind
the plowing, a marvel of Homer’s close study of nature as well as an
expression of his ideal for art. Nature is a language all can understand
and human nature is a language all must and do understand. When lament
was made over the body of Patroklos, the elegy of Briseis stirred all,
“and thereon the women wailed, in semblance for Patroklos, but each
for her own woe.” Similar is the appeal of art where in semblance of
something else, each sees what belongs to self. Aristotle in seeking to
explain the characteristic pleasure of art ascribes it to _mimesis_ or
re-presentation in another medium. Such staging, he says, not only robs
the terrifying of its terrors but enables all to understand and reason
to the nature of each art product. Such understanding and reasoning
mean surely something more than the mere recognition of photographic
accuracy and likeness. If we may press the meaning of the Greek word used
for reason, the process of art enjoyment is similar to the syllogistic
process which involves an appeal to a general statement. The process is
one which recognizes the general in a particular case, as the grief of
Briseis found an echoing grief in every heart.
Whether Aristotle and this interpretation of him is correct or not, it
is evident that art must generalize. Art must select, both by choice of
the artist and by the limitations of his medium. Art does not photograph,
because it has no sensitive plate for its medium. The photographer’s
art largely precedes the camera and consists in selecting that pose
and that expression, out of many, which is yours. The camera is nature,
controlled by mechanism, and is not art. If the photographer or painter
or sculptor photographed you in some passing spasm, we should not
learn and reason that it was you. The spasm was realism and fact, but
it was peculiar and individual; it was not you whom we have known and
generalized from experience. In such a case, Aristotle says shrewdly,
we might get artistic pleasure from the workmanship or colors, that is,
from the medium and the mechanics of art, but we should have no artistic
pleasure from the soul and substance of the art product because the
product found no prototype in our experience, because we could not define
it or generalize it. Art selects. It cannot give everything, and if it
would be true, it must give what all may understand; it must give what is
generally true, and what is generally true of all men is human nature.
Selective idealism has usually the advantage of being intelligible, but
it labors under the disadvantage of becoming merely intelligible. It
gives the truth, but through familiarity the beauty or artistic appeal
of the truth has been dulled and tarnished, or, like the dandelion,
until a Lowell gives it a new luster, its very commonness leaves us
unmoved. We enjoy human nature in Homer because he was the creator of
sleeping winds and of rosy-fingered dawns and of the mother’s smile
alight through tears. A modern who would transfer these same touches to
his own composition would leave us cold. He too must create; he must be
personal, but he must not be individual. Personality is the knowing and
loving principle, and looks to the many with its thoughts and wishes.
Individuality is the principle of separation and isolation and is looking
inward, not outward. When the artist, therefore, creates and gives his
own winds or dawn or mother love, he should speak to us in his own
concrete embodiments of nature, and of human nature, using a language man
understands. If selective idealism tends to become merely intelligible
and unappealing, individualism tends to become unintelligible and to
mystify.
The poet, the novelist, the painter have more depth than silver nitrate
on a photographic plate. Artists do not simply mirror nature; they do
not catch at the odd or freakish. That is photography, not creation.
Horace did not give us a moving picture of a falling tree, but he saw
the humor and human interest of that “sorry log.” Burns did not give
us an anatomical study of the typhus-carrier on a lady’s bonnet in a
kirk, making it crawl upon ourselves and sending us after the kerosene
can and bath tub, but Burns soared away, from that sight with Horatian
humor and Horatian human nature, into the immortal lines, “O wad some
power the giftie gie us.” The artist who confounds the generalized mental
attractiveness found in true art with the shock of nerves or the tickling
of concupiscence or with misguided realism, will not produce things of
beauty. He gets a thrill, but it is not the permanent, undying thrill of
art, not the thing of beauty, which is a joy forever.
IV
ART AND HUMAN NATURE
2. REALISM AND REALITY
At an exhibition in New York City there was displayed a picture of an
ocean wave upon the crest of which the artist had nailed a real bar of
soap. The first idea of the spectator was to consider this peculiar
product an advertisement, but it seems to have been intended as a
serious, if perverted, attempt at art. If the artist was not slyly
proposing the caricature of excessive realism, the cake of soap will
serve well as a parable for those artists who do not distinguish between
realism and reality.
The ultra-realist forgets that art is a creation, the making of another
world. The artist cannot really create what he puts into his new world
of sight or hearing or imagination, of color, of sound, of words. If
he could actually make something new, not based on nature or on human
nature, he would do so on the penalty of being unintelligible. Neither
should he go to the other extreme and not leave the world of reality at
all. He may not eat his cake and have it. If what he takes from actuality
is not merged fully into his art form, he tries to give us fact and
fiction, history and art, in the same product, and he nails a piece of
soap on a painted wave.
Aristotle insists above all on probability in art, or motivation, as
it is now commonly called. A probable or well-motived impossibility,
he says, is more artistic and pleasing than an improbable, that is,
an unmotived fact. For a like reason he demands that fiction be more
philosophical than history. We accept a chronicle of facts without
necessarily being aware of their causal connections. In the realms of
art the connection must be established. This principle, so fruitful for
art, is not to be understood as justifying or approving that school of
subjective novelists which is parsimonious in happenings but diffuse
in reasoning and gives us a maximum of discussion with a minimum of
incident. Aristotle is thinking more of the people who witness the
drama. The spectators want the motivation and plausibility of action
rather than that of logic. The soliloquy has gone from the stage; the
printed soliloquy should be curtailed in the novel. A true understanding
of motivation will send all artists back to nature and to human nature
for those incidents which are the springs of action and do not require
lengthy logic to labor at their explanation. Homer is completely lacking
in logical refining. Incident leads to feeling and talk, which gives rise
to further incident. Action, feeling and character, Aristotle’s trinity
of art subjects, are mingled and detailed, and the story moves on in a
way plausible and pleasing to Homeric audiences. When Homer runs short of
motivation, he does not resort to logic; he refers the causality to the
gods, as modern writers refer all insoluble problems to evolution, which
puts hardly more restrictions upon imagination than Homeric mythology.
The artist must transfer his product wholly to the world of art.
Sculptured horses must not neigh, nor painted flowers give perfume, but
neighing and scents may be suggested even in stone, and in lines by
art happenings, which all may read running if the artist will use the
language of human nature. He should paint his cake of soap in, not nail
it on. If the exigencies of the story demand it, costumes of the night
or costumes of bathing may be in place, but it is nailing on a cake of
soap, it is outraging probabilities, to force a story into a setting or
to adopt a style of dress or of undress simply for the sake of producing
a shock. That is the shock of reality, not of art and beauty. Should the
dramatist have an excellent quartet and stop the play in order to give a
song, he is nailing on a piece of soap, which may be magnificent soap,
but it is not art.
Why is the so-called realism depressing? Why is the Russian novelist left
for the connoisseur but is caviar to the general? Is it the presence or
absence of evil? Hardly that. Homer’s stories are full of evil and of
death; Sophocles’ _King Œdipus_ and the _Prometheus_ of Eschylus are
surcharged with evil, but they do not depress. Euripides, on the other
hand, and Lucian have more alleged realism and are depressing, even when
they cause a smile. The realist is cynical, and cynics do not soar off
into the world of art, but keep tethering themselves to the real world.
They do not lose themselves in their story because they are always
thinking of keeping some one’s nose against their grindstone. Why should
the optimistic moralizing of Polyanna be resented by critics any more
than the cynic moralizing of Shaw or of _Main Street_? The cheerful idiot
and the purblind dyspeptic are depressing in real life, especially when
they are moralizing, but in and out of art we can laugh at the idiot,
while we squirm at the assumed superiority of the cynic. The moralizing
is a cake of soap.
Shakespeare is not depressing and Homer is not depressing. They do not
blink the facts of life, and beyond the humor and humanity which saves
them and their audience, they lose themselves in their story. The evil
they depict is true evil, so recognized, in their art-world. It is,
besides, evil called for by their story, not lugged in for a moral or to
exemplify a theory of art. They know that drab is not the only color in
life. They know that bright things are as real as black things, but they
are not illustrating a theory but giving us a story. We pass with them
into a fictitious world, and the things which depress the denizens of
that world do not depress us if we are not brought back to reality by
stumbling on a cake of real soap, not integrated with the story.
The sight of his dog Argos made the heart of Odysseus sink. Even for
those who think ugliness the only reality, Argos was covered with
realities and squatted on reality. He depressed his master but he does
not depress us. He lies upon Main Street and has a Polyanna wag to his
tail. His optimism and his pessimism are, however, not tacked on. “And
lo, a hound raised up his head and pricked his ears, Argos, the hound of
Odysseus.... Despised he lay (his master being afar) in the deep dung of
mules and swine.... There lay the dog Argos, full of vermin. Yet even now
when he was aware of Odysseus standing by, he wagged his tail and dropped
both his ears, but nearer to his master he had not the strength to draw.
But Odysseus looked aside and wiped a tear.” Argos is the ideal dog of
a far away master; “who has lost his dominion,” as Eumæus, the shepherd
of Odysseus, says. Argos registers the fate of his master. We feel, but
we do not feel depressed. It is human; it is all inevitable; it is real
as life but perfectly idealized by perfect transfer to the realm of art.
Eumæus gives us the morality of it, the truth of it, but he is far from
moralizing, either pessimistically or optimistically. Argos is the dog
Schneider that Jefferson’s Rip Van Winkle could not find to recognize
him; he is the picture in brief of his master’s fate. Eumæus is as free
from all obtrusive soap as Argos himself. The dog’s fate is ascribed
to the careless women who “are no more inclined to honest service when
their masters have lost dominion, for Zeus takes away the half of a man’s
virtue when the day of slavery comes upon him.”
V
ART AND THE DIVINE
1. RELIGIOUS ORIGIN OF ART
The recent discovery of the tomb of King Tutankhamen has aroused the
interest of the world. The perseverance of the explorer, the variety,
artistic excellence and intrinsic value of the discovery gave the news
a place in the press and signalized the latest triumph of the spade,
which Schliemann converted into the best of historians. Dig in your
back-yard, and you can read its past in the layers before your eyes.
Make a cross-section of the country, and successive deposits will
tell you its story. Lay bare the strata of the earth, and the buried
fossils, the minerals, the gas, the oil, reveal the history of the world.
Grave-digging is the most productive occupation to which science, art and
even commerce can now be vocationally guided.
What was it that enriched the Egyptian tomb and other tombs of the past
in which man was buried? It was religion, and specifically it was belief
in the immortality of the soul. The latest opened tomb repeats the truth
that was manifest in the pyramids of Egypt, which were temples as well
as tombs. The beehive tombs of Mycenæ from which Schliemann actually
shoveled gold ornaments of various kinds were also temples as well as
tombs. The altar-stones in Catholic churches with their tiny _loculi_ for
the relic of a saint keep still the memory of the days when persecuted
Christians found the Catacombs of the dead places of worship as well as
of escape from the persecutor.
The caves of Cro-Magnon and Aurignac and other ancient deposits in France
and Spain have disclosed the earliest evidence of man’s art. The man was
no mean artist, and the coloring and skillful drawing have astonished
every one. Why dark caverns, inaccessible to light, should have been
so decorated has puzzled observers. Reinach calls the pictures early
“magic,” painting of animals to capture them. But there are paintings of
men as well as of bisons and reindeer. Professor Osborne is quoted as
saying that it seems to be art for art’s sake, namely, that the sheer
pleasure of the drawing is its reason. An admission, it would seem, that
the professor has no real explanation to offer. Sir Bertram Windle has
recently asserted the religious origin of these pictures. They would
seem to be the earliest appearance of stained-glass windows. The caves
were temples, and the explanation is confirmed by a comparison with the
beehive tombs of Mycenæ and with the Egyptian tombs. The altar, the
sacrifice, the victims, the food, clothing and other accompaniments
of life, are all evidences of religious feelings and a belief in a
continued existence. The absence of the bodies in these caves may easily
be accounted for. Fleeting time with prowling animals has destroyed
them while it left the pictures on the wall. Art is even longer than
Longfellow imagined.
If the earliest art so far found is religious in origin, these so called
Cro-Magnon or Aurignacian artists exemplify again what is a commonplace
in the history of art. It would be easy to add to the following
statements found under “Art” in Hasting’s _Dictionary of Religion_:
“The religious aspect of art in Egypt includes almost all that is known
of it.” “There is hardly any doubt that the high level of Assyrian and
Babylonian art is due to the deep religious feeling of the two nations.”
“The history of art in Greece is throughout its course intimately
connected with religion.” The fact is beyond all denying. Religion and
art are united, in music and song, from the dances of savages to the
Hebrew psalms and the stateliest liturgies; in painting, from the early
caveman to the modern man; in sculpture, from the crudest icons dug up
at Troy to the idol statues of Greece and Rome, in the lions and bulls
of buried Mycenæ and Crete, of Assyria and Egypt, in the tiny seal
rings, in the ornaments and statuary of our modern churches; in oratory,
from the prayers of the priest in the _Iliad_, to the fulminations of
the prophet and the eloquence of the pulpit; even in civic oratory
we find Demosthenes and Cicero in their sublimest heights touching
upon religious motives; in the poetry of incantation, of oracle, of
revelation, in liturgy and drama; in the little tale of the fable and
in the mighty story of the epic, for the full sweep of which Homer and
Virgil, Dante and Milton must stage their events upon the background of
a Divine Providence; in architecture, from the tombs and temples of the
eastern world, to the temples of the Aztecs and to the Gothic cathedral.
Aquinas gave in his _Summa_ a synthesis of all science; Dante gave in
his _Divina Comedia_ a synthesis of man’s life and destiny; the Gothic
cathedral of the same age gave a synthesis of all the arts in one
structure, exemplifying in fullness and excellence the mutual interaction
of art and religion in the middle ages, where manifestly religion
held sway as never before or since. The Morgan “Collection” in the
Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts in New York exhibits the dusty wreckage
of that wonderful union of religion and art. No poet’s imagination is
needed to rebuild those fragments into that marvelous structure, under
whose myriad statuary of serious saints and grotesque gargoyles, you pass
through carved portals into the spacious aisles over which arches leap
aspiringly. The painter fascinates you with the story of many colors
in the windows. The weaver hangs other pictures on the rich tapestry
curtaining the walls. The wood-carver is everywhere evoking beauty with
cunning fingers. Music and song in the dramatic and antiphonal liturgy,
the sublime eloquence of the pulpit in turn charm and rest the ears.
The minutest detail is as artistic as the rich magnificence. The missal
on the altar will be a “Book of Kells,” a reflection on illuminated
parchment of the religious and monastic life which produced it, by
its patience, learning, devotion, silent application, and scrupulous
exactness; “examined with a microscope for hours,” says an authority,
“without detecting a false line or irregular interlacement.” Near the
missal of the Gothic cathedral would be found a jeweled chalice, like
that of Ardagh, with three hundred and fifty-four distinct pieces,
classic and rich in all kinds of ornament. Baldwin Brown was surely right
in declaring: “It is probable that nothing more artistically beautiful
has ever been seen than the Gothic cathedral,” and the Gothic cathedral
is the crowning glory of a deeply religious age.
VI
ART AND THE DIVINE
2. THE KINSHIP OF ART AND RELIGION
The history of art from its lowest manifestations to its highest gives
evidence of its union and intimacy with religion. The fact is admitted,
and might easily be confirmed by the very way in which religious
movements violently reacted against art. Hebraism knew the power of art
over its followers, and Hebraic antagonism to sculpture and painting
served to give religious impulse freer outlet in Hebrew poetry and
oratory and other literature. The Bible is the supreme illustration of
the influence of religion upon literary art. Islamism opposed art, but
gradually succumbed to its influence at least in architecture. That Islam
has not yielded more to art is an evidence of arrested civilization, as
well as of baser and more sensual religious feelings. Puritanism, the
intensest form of Protestantism, opposed art in all its manifestations,
but Puritanism either diverted art energy to poetry and literature or
provoked excesses by its attempt to check the natural impulses of art,
and Puritanism finally yielded to art. It is clear then that religious
opposition to art serves but to show more strikingly the union of
religion and art. The religion that opposes art must direct the art
impulse into other channels or the religion degenerates. By their nature
religion and art are congenial.
What now is the explanation of this close and continuous union of art
and religion, found everywhere and in all ages? Taine and his school,
led astray by some details in the artist’s subject matter, have tried to
explain art by environment; but environment is an explanation absurd in
itself, and cannon be adequate for an ubiquitous fact which transcends
all environment. The theorists who ascribe the origin of art to play and
the deploying of superfluous energies liken, with Herbert Spencer, the
art impulse to the acts of a kitten playing with a ball. Play may be
partly an excess of energy, but not all energy is artistic, and animal
play is the stirring of appetite, bearing but a slight, superficial
resemblance to man’s early strivings for artistic expression. How many
games are imitative and made more attractive by art! From the very first,
mind enters into early and even child art, and at the last the devotion
of the artists to their ideals in the higher manifestations of art, a
devotion quite unlike play, shows that the art impulse is essentially
different from the instinctive impulse of the kitten, which pounces on a
rat as it pounced on a ball of wool.[1]
Another school, striving to explain the connection between art and
religion, takes a directly opposite view to the play theory. Fear and
magic are, according to these authors, the controlling factors. The
difficulty in this theory is the utterly selfish element in the fear and
magic impulse, whereas the art impulse is disinterested and unselfish.
Besides, religious belief precedes the fear and magic propitiation of
offended powers. The voodoo and the hoodoo mark degradations of religious
impulses. Impulses in harmony with man’s nature may go down as well as
up, and even should we suppose that the unselfish impulse of art, which
finally becomes the evidence and glory of man’s highest civilization,
could be traced back to the sordid details of selfish superstition, why
should such an ugly duckling evolve into a fair swan? Devolution and
degradation are easier than evolution. Why did the art impulse take the
narrow, upward path and shun the broad way down to perdition?
The perfection of the oak must have been in the potency of the acorn. The
oak could not come from a peanut, nor can all the powers of sun, rain
and soil or any other factor of the environment evolve the fruit of the
peanut vine into the majesty of the oak. We can explain by an extrinsic
cause the stunting of an oak or the rotting of an oak, but we cannot
account for the existence of the oak—except by an acorn. We may find
perhaps a thwarted or corrupted art tendency in superstitious fear and
its products, but that element of fear could not write a poem or compose
a sonata or rear a Gothic cathedral. The perfection reached by the art
product must have been in the potency of the first artistic impulse in
germ.
Religion and art were then united potentially in the original art impulse
just as the strength and lofty beauty of the oak were latent in the
acorn. The art impulse is natural to man; it is intellectual. It requires
brains to be artistic, as it requires brains to laugh, and no animal
has done either or will ever do either. The bird in building its nest
displays an intelligence not its own; its nest building is inherited
just as its song is. Jean Fabre’s observations have shown conclusively
the wonders of instinct, coupled with the stupidity of the creature
possessing the instinct. But the earliest scrawl or daub of the child
displays the mind working on matter and the deliberate shaping of means
to an end. All intellectual testers from Simon-Binet to the latest have
found the making or interpreting of pictures a measure of intellectual
power. They are right. Art is rationalized pigments or sounds or words
with their images or some other rationalized material. Dr. James Harvey
Robinson in _Mind in the Making_ says that we are wrong in rationalizing
the past to make up our minds, and how does he show it? By rationalizing
another past for us. The truth is we must rationalize the past, and Dr.
Robinson should induce us, not to stop rationalizing, but to rationalize
correctly and should give us something better than universal skepticism
with which to rationalize. The art tendency is one with the religious
tendency in being rational and intellectual.
Art and religion strive for high ideals; they are disinterested and
unselfish. LaFarge says to Saint Gaudens: “That work is not worthy of
you,” and Saint Gaudens picks up a hammer and smashes the sculpture. That
is an instance paralleling the heroic following of religious ideals with
like sacrifices. Was it fear of bogies or love of their dead which filled
so many tombs with precious articles? Believing in immortality, Egyptians
and Myceneans gave to the dead what was most precious, and what was most
precious was the finest art in the costliest material. Love keeps graves
green: fear erects a crematory.
Art and religion are personal and emotional. Each has its own proper
expression. Of religion the expression is worship and of art it is
concrete embodiment of the ideal, and in both cases the expression is
intimately personal and permeated with feeling. Art is more sensible and
so more emotional because its expression must be presented to the senses
or at least to the imagination. Religion whose primary expression is
an act of the will, need not of its nature be attended with emotion or
external display but it usually is, and feeling and expression commonly
help to the fuller expression of religion. The rapture of art and the
ecstasy of religion, though differing in much, have also much in common.
In their social appeal art and religion are akin. The artist and the
saint have their hours of solitary contemplation. St. Peter at Pentecost,
describing the religious ecstasy of the inspired apostles, cried out:
“These are not drunk as you suppose,” and, continuing, he quoted the
prophet Joel: “
|
uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps,
however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself
with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep
churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.
On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the
most violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross
materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what
really distressed him most was that he had been unable to wear the suit
of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by
the sight of a Specter in armor, if for no more sensible reason, at
least out of respect for their national poet Longfellow, over whose
graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary
hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides it was his own suit.
He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had
been highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen
herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered
by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen
heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and
bruising the knuckles of his right hand.
For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of
his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair.
However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to
make a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his
family. He selected Friday, August 17th, for his appearance, and spent
most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in
favor of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet
frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a
violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the
windows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was
just such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to
make his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the
foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound
of low music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware
that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville
blood-stain by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reduced
the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he
was then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister
and his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead,
while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful secrets of
the charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made
up his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and
gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more
than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the
counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite
determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of
course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling
sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each
other, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse,
till they became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off the
winding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and
one rolling eyeball in the character of "Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's
Skeleton," a _rôle_ in which he had on more than one occasion produced a
great effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of
"Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery."
At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was
disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the
light-hearted gayety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves
before they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was still,
and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the
window-panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind
wandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family
slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he
could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He
stepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his
cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole
past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his
murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like
an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed.
Once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only
the baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange
sixteenth century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger
in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that
led to luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the
wind blowing his long gray locks about his head, and twisting into
grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's
shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was
come. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had
he done so than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid
his blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was
standing a horrible specter, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous
as a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round,
and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its
features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet
light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to
his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was
a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of
shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime,
and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.
Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened,
and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to
his room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the
corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's
jack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the
privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small
pallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however,
the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to
go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly,
just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards
the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling
that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid
of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching
the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had
evidently happened to the specter, for the light had entirely faded from
its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it
was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable
attitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his
horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a
recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity
bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow
turnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious
transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there,
in the gray morning light, he read these fearful words:
YE OTIS GHOSTE
Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook,
Beware of Ye Imitationes.
All others are counterfeite.
The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and
outwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his
toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his
head, swore according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique
school, that, when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds
of blood would be wrought, and murder walk abroad with silent feet.
Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of
a distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh,
and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange
reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of
the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back
to his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There he
consulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly
fond, and found that, on every occasion on which this oath had been
used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. "Perdition seize the
naughty fowl," he muttered, "I have seen the day when, with my stout
spear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me
an 'twere in death!" He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and
stayed there till evening.
IV
The next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement
of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were
completely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five
days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point
of the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not
want it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on
a low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating
the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic
apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a
different matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn
duty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large
oriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and he
did not see how he could honorably escape from his obligations. It is
quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand,
he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural.
For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as
usual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possible
precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots,
trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large
black velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for
oiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good
deal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of
protection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he
slipped into Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a
little humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see
that there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a
certain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything he
was not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across
the corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion,
while dressed for the part of "Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley
Woods," he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide,
which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry
Chamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him
that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and
social position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the
next night in his celebrated character of "Reckless Rupert, or the
Headless Earl."
He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in
fact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means
of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord
Canterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome
Jack Castletown, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to
marry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and
down the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by
Lord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken
heart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it
had been a great success. It was, however, an extremely difficult
"make-up," if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with
one of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more
scientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three
hours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was
very pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that went
with the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only
find one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite
satisfied, and at a quarter-past one he glided out of the wainscoting
and crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins,
which I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber on account of the
color of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make an
effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water
fell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his
left shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled
shrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his
nervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he
could go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only
thing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he
had not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences
might have been very serious.
He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family,
and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in
list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of
draughts, and a small arquebus, in case he should be attacked by the
twins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. He
had gone downstairs to the great entrance-hall feeling sure that there,
at any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by
making satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of the United
States Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of the
Canterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long
shroud, spotted with churchyard mold, had tied up his jaw with a strip
of yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. In
fact, he was dressed for the character of "Jonas the Graveless, or the
Corpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn," one of his most remarkable
impersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to
remember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their
neighbor, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter-past two o'clock in the
morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he
was strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were any
traces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a
dark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads,
and shrieked out "BOO!" in his ear.
Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural,
he rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him
there with the big garden-syringe, and being thus hemmed in by his
enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the
great iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to
make his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own
room in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair.
After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins
lay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with
nutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the
servants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings
were so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed
his great work on the history of the Democratic party, on which he had
been engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organized a wonderful clam-bake,
which amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker,
and other American national games, and Virginia rode about the lanes on
her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to
spend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was
generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otis
wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply,
expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best
congratulations to the Minister's worthy wife.
The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the
house, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let
matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the
young Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had
once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice
with the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the
floor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state that, though
he lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but
"Double Sixes." The story was well known at the time, though, of course,
out of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt
was made to hush it up, and a full account of all the circumstances
connected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle's
_Recollections of the Prince Regent and his Friends_. The ghost, then,
was naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence
over the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his
own first cousin having been married _en secondes noces_ to the Sieur de
Bulkeley, from whom, as everyone knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are
lineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to
Virginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of "The Vampire
Monk, or the Bloodless Benedictine," a performance so horrible that when
old Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, in
the year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which
culminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after
disinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and
leaving all her money to her London apothecary. At the last moment,
however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the
little Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal
Bedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.
V
A few days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out
riding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting
through a hedge that, on their return home, she made up her mind to go
up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past
the Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied
she saw someone inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, who
sometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her
habit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville ghost
himself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the
yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly
down the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole
attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much
out of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea had
been to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity, and
determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so
deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she
spoke to him.
"I am so sorry for you," she said, "but my brothers are going back to
Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy
you."
"It is absurd asking me to behave myself," he answered, looking round in
astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him,
"quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and
walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for
existing."
"It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very
wicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had
killed your wife."
"Well, I quite admit it," said the ghost, petulantly, "but it was a
purely family matter and concerned no one else."
"It is very wrong to kill anyone," said Virginia, who at times had a
sweet puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.
"Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very
plain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about
cookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent
pricket, and do you know how she had it sent to table? However, it is no
matter now, for it is all over, and I don't think it was very nice of
her brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her."
"Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost--I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry?
I have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?"
"No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you,
all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude,
vulgar, dishonest family."
"Stop!" cried Virginia, stamping her foot, "it is you who are rude, and
horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints
out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the
library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I
couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the
chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese
white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing
to look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though I
was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for
who ever heard of emerald-green blood?"
"Well, really," said the Ghost, rather meekly, "what was I to do? It is
a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother
began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I
should not have your paints. As for color, that is always a matter of
taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest
in England; but I know you Americans don't care for things of this
kind."
"You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate
and improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a
free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind,
there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are
all Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I
know lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to
have a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost."
"I don't think I should like America."
"I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities," said Virginia,
satirically.
"No ruins! no curiosities!" answered the Ghost; "you have your navy and
your manners."
"Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week's
holiday."
"Please don't go, Miss Virginia," he cried; "I am so lonely and so
unhappy, and I really don't know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I
cannot."
"That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the
candle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at
church, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even
babies know how to do that, and they are not very clever."
"I have not slept for three hundred years," he said sadly, and
Virginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; "for three hundred
years I have not slept, and I am so tired."
Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like
rose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side,
looked up into his old withered face.
"Poor, poor ghost," she murmured; "have you no place where you can
sleep?"
"Far away beyond the pinewoods," he answered, in a low, dreamy voice,
"there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there
are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale
sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon
looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the
sleepers."
Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.
"You mean the Garden of Death," she whispered.
"Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth,
with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have
no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at
peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's
house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is."
Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments
there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.
Then the ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of
the wind.
"Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?"
"Oh, often," cried the little girl, looking up; "I know it quite well.
It is painted in curious black letters, and is difficult to read. There
are only six lines:
"'When a golden girl can win
Prayer from out the lips of sin,
When the barren almond bears,
And a little child gives away its tears,
Then shall all the house be still
And peace come to Canterville.'
"But I don't know what they mean."
"They mean," he said, sadly, "that you must weep with me for my sins,
because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no
faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle,
the angel of death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in
darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not
harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell
cannot prevail."
Virginia made no answer, and the ghost wrung his hands in wild despair
as he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very
pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. "I am not afraid," she said
firmly, "and I will ask the angel to have mercy on you."
He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent
over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold
as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as
he led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were
broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasseled horns and with their
tiny hands waved to her to go back. "Go back! little Virginia," they
cried, "go back!" but the ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and she
shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails and
goggle eyes blinked at her from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured,
"Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again," but the
ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they
reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she
could not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly
fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A
bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her
dress. "Quick, quick," cried the ghost, "or it will be too late," and in
a moment the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry
Chamber was empty.
VI
About ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not
come down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a
little time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia
anywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every
evening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at all
alarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, and Virginia did not
appear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for
her, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. At
half-past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace
of their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of
excitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly
remembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsies
permission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for
Blackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son
and two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was
perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too, but
Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle.
On arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had gone,
and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as the
fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. Having
sent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home,
and dispatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county,
telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped by
tramps or gipsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought round, and
after insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down to dinner,
rode off down the Ascot road with a groom. He had hardly, however, gone
a couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after him, and,
looking round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with his face
very flushed, and no hat. "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Otis," gasped out the
boy, "but I can't eat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Please
don't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year, there
would never have been all this trouble. You won't send me back, will
you? I can't go! I won't go!"
The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace,
and was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down
from his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, "Well,
Cecil, if you won't go back, I suppose you must come with me, but I must
get you a hat at Ascot."
"Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!" cried the little Duke, laughing,
and they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of
the station-master if anyone answering to the description of Virginia
had been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The
station-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him
that a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a
hat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his
shutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away,
which he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was a
large common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but
could get no information from him, and, after riding all over the
common, they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chase
about eleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They found
Washington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with
lanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of
Virginia had been discovered. The gipsies had been caught on Brockley
meadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden
departure by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and
had gone off in a hurry for fear they should be late. Indeed, they had
been quite distressed at hearing of Virginia's disappearance, as they
were very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his
park, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search.
The carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone
over, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any
rate, Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest
depression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom
following behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they
found a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library
was poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and
having her forehead bathed with eau de cologne by the old housekeeper.
Mr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up
supper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly anyone
spoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very
fond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the
entreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that
nothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in
the morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down
immediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight
began to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded
they heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder
shook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a
panel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out
on the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her
hand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs.
Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with
violent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.
"Good heavens! child, where have you been?" said Mr. Otis, rather
|
gallant affair
of Queenstown, and with Colonel, since Gen. Scott, was surrendered a
prisoner of war. This was on the 13th of October, 1812. In this affair
the companies of the thirteenth had been long opposed to the greatly
celebrated and highly disciplined forty-ninth British infantry, a
regiment which had stood the ordeal of the Peninsula War, and had won
laurels from the best troops of France. The forty-ninth had occupied,
with heavy reinforcements of Canadian militia, a battery on a commanding
position. The cannonade and musketry from this point was so severe that
every commissioned officer was in the first assault either killed or
wounded, and Col. Van Rensselaer who commanded, was carried from the
field unable to stand. Before he left, however, he ordered every man who
could move to storm the battery. Three more gallant officers than those
who carried his order into execution probably never lived. They were
Captain Wool, Lieutenant Kearny, and 2nd Lieutenant T. B. Randolph, late
of the Virginia regiment. By orders of Capt. Wool the two companies of
the 13th, which originally had numbered but one hundred, all told, were
extended and ordered to close upon the guns. This perilous manœuvre was
executed with brilliant success, the enemy were driven precipitately
from his guns, which were the first trophies to the United States of the
war with Great Britain. This field was young Kearny’s first arms, and
was a brilliant promise of what was to be his future career. The battle
was important to the United States, though, as is well known, Col. Scott
and his gallant command of regulars were forced to surrender. To the
English it was most disastrous, Major Gen. Sir Isaac Brock, the captor
of Detroit, a man thought worthy to compete with Wellington for the
command of the British army in Spain, having been picked off by an
American marksman. Throughout this trying engagement young Kearny
sustained himself with the firmness which he maintained through life.
When driven to the hill selected by the present Col. Totten as the
strongest point, his perseverance was as distinguished as his
impetuosity had been during the charge.
After the surrender, Kearny, with the other prisoners, was marched to
the Canadian village of Niagara, where, it is said, they were scarcely
treated with the consideration due such gallant soldiers. There occurred
a circumstance of thrilling character often told—the attempted murder
of Col. Scott by the Indian chiefs “young Brandt and Captain Jacobs,”
which, had it proved successful, would have made irreconcilable the war
between Great Britain and the United States. It failed through the great
personal courage of Col. Scott and the gallantry of Captain Coffin, an
aide of Gen. Sheafe, but the would-be murderers were never punished by
the British government. The recurrence of such scenes, and the
probability of long confinement, exercised a most unhappy effect on the
mind of Kearny, who saw as the consequence of his captivity (at that day
there were no exchanges of prisoners) the ruin of his professional
prospects. After a confinement of some weeks at Niagara, Kearny was with
the other prisoners sent to Quebec. For a long time he continued moody
and morose, until a circumstance occurred, which the present
general-in-chief relates, that restored his wonted alertness. The
prisoners were taken to Quebec in a vessel, and from the carelessness
incident to this mode of travel, the idea of a possible escape occurred
to Col. Scott. The plan was to overpower the guard, to march at once to
the nearest division of the United States troops on the frontier, and
take their conductors with them as captives. Col. Scott imparted this
plan to Kearny, who at once entered into it with his whole soul. His
energy returned, and he became again the wild subaltern who had led the
first platoon of the thirteenth at Queenstown. Circumstances prevented
this plot from being carried into execution, but it had gone far enough
to show that the subject of this memoir had as much prudence as valor.
The prisoners at last arrived at Quebec, and their situation at once
became most painful. They were confined in the old French castle, and
were subjected to many indignities. This was before Niagara and Lundy’s
Lane, and countless other fields had taught the British army that the
American soldiers were worthy antagonists. At that time the British army
was filled with the aristocracy of the country, which could not conceive
or imagine the true position of a country without a nobility. Countless
trivial insults were daily given, and which galled to the last degree
the forbearance of the prisoners. The following anecdote may explain
what they were.
On one occasion, when the American prisoners dined at the garrison mess,
an officer of the British staff arose, and with a pointed pomposity gave
the toast, “Mr. Madison, dead or alive.” The faces of the American
officers flushed with indignation, which was not diminished when they
saw a young American lieutenant rise from his chair, and in the blandest
manner, and with a most insinuating smile, give thanks for the
remembrance of the Chief Magistrate of the United States. All thought
him drunk or mad, as he proceeded to say, “he felt the weightiness of
the burden imposed on him by the silence of his seniors, that he would
not give thanks for the toast last drunken, but would give another in
return. He was sure the officers of both services present would
understand him when he gave ‘the health of his royal highness, the
Prince of Wales, DRUNK OR SOBER.’” If a shell had exploded under the
table the surprise could not have been greater, and the danger of a
collision became imminent, when the senior officer of the British army
present, a man of tact and taste, interfered, and sent the person who
had given the first toast from the table under arrest. This anecdote is
variously told in the service, and sometimes is attributed to Gen.
Kearny, and sometimes to the late Mann Page Lomax, major of artillery,
who was at the time a prisoner in the castle of Quebec. It is perfectly
characteristic of each of these officers, and whether Gen. Kearny be the
hero or not, aptly enough illustrates this portion of his career. The
American victories in the West, by which hosts of prisoners were
acquired, soon placed the men of Queenstown in a different position, and
they were exchanged.
Kearny was with Scott at the time the latter officer resisted the
attempt to place in confinement the Irishmen surrendered at Queenstown,
and ably sustained him in his energetic action in relation to this
high-handed measure. He sailed in the cartel to Boston, and immediately
on his arrival, proceeded to rejoin his regiment. He was subsequently
stationed at Sacket’s Harbor, where he acquired the reputation for
discipline and soldiership which never deserted him. While at this post
the British commander, Sir James Yoe, and Commodore Chauncy, were
manœuvring for possession of the lake. On one occasion, when in
possession of a temporary superiority, Sir James appeared in front of
the harbor and challenged the commodore to a fight. This the latter
refused, because he had no marines. When the reason was told Capt.
Kearny, (he had in the interim been promoted) a gallant officer of New
York, a captain of artillery, named Romain, offered at once to go on
board and serve as marine. The offer was not, however, accepted, much to
the chagrin of Kearny and Romain.
Captain Kearny served through the war, and on the reductions of 1815 and
1821, was retained in the service with his old grade and rank. In 1823
he received the usual brevet for ten years faithful service, and was
assigned to the command of the beautiful post of Bellefontaine, near St.
Louis, and in that year accompanied Brigadier General Atkinson in his
famous expedition to the Upper Missouri. This was before the
introduction of steamboats into those waters, and the expedition was one
of the most tedious imaginable. The boats were necessarily to be
propelled by poles and oars against the rapid current of the Missouri,
and not unfrequently by the tedious process of _cordelling_. This is
done by extending from the capstan of the boat a cable, which is made
fast to the shore, and thus the vessel must carefully be wound up until
the rope is exhausted. Then a new rope is stretched, and the same
tedious process undergone. Often, when in the midst of _rapids_, the
cable would break, and before the vessel could be brought up, a greater
distance than had been gained in a week would be passed over. In the
course of two years they reached the Yellow Stone river, twenty-two
hundred miles above St. Louis, and displayed the colors of the 1st and
6th infantry where the United States flag had never been seen before.
The Sioux, the Pawnee, the Mandan, and Arickra, were made acquainted
with the government, of which before they had but a vague knowledge, and
the vast resources of that immense country for the first time revealed
to the nation.
On his return Major Kearny received a full majority in the third
infantry, and was removed to a new sphere, to the southern extremity of
the Indian territory. While major of this regiment he established the
post of Towson, on the banks of Red River. To reach this place, easy of
access as it is at present, it was necessary to pass through what was
then a wilderness of prairie, but which to the soldiers inured to the
incessant storms of the Upper Missouri, seemed almost an Arcadia. After
crossing the northern tributaries of the Arkansas, they were in the
midst of the range of the buffalo, and the countless herds of wild
horses which then abounded even there. The latter, not unfrequently,
amazed at the novel sight of the marching troops, would dash up, as if
to charge the columns, pause with as much unanimity as if they acted by
command, encircle it, and tossing their long manes and forelocks, hurry
out of view. New objects continually met his gaze, and the information
then amassed was among the most valuable ever collected under the
auspices of the government. On this march Major Kearny was accompanied
by his accomplished wife, a step-daughter of Gen. M. Clark, of St.
Louis, whom, about the time of his promotion, he had married. With the
third infantry Major Kearny remained until the Black Hawk war, when
almost all the troops of the country were concentrated in the country of
the hostile Indians.
While a major of the third, an incident occurred, which, though often
told, will bear repetition. On one occasion, while stationed at
Jefferson Barracks, Major Kearny was drilling a brigade on one of the
open fields near the post. The manœuvre was the simple exercise of
marching in line to the front. An admirable horseman, he sat with his
face toward the troops, while the horse he rode, perfectly trained, was
backed in the same direction, along which the command was marched. At
once the animal fell, fastening the rider to the ground by his whole
weight. His brigade had been drilled to such a state of insensibility,
that not one of them came to his assistance; nor was it necessary. The
line advanced to within about ten feet of him, when, in a loud, distinct
voice, calmly as if he had been in the saddle under no unusual
circumstance, Major Kearny gave the command, “_Fourth
company—obstacle—march._” The fourth company, which was immediately in
front of him, was flanked by its captain in the rear of the other half
of the grand division. The line passed on, and when he was thus left in
the rear of his men, he gave the command, “_Fourth company into
line—march._” He was not seriously injured—extricated himself from his
horse, mounted again, passed to the front of the regiment, and executed
the next manœuvre in the series he had marked out for the day’s drill.
We are now, however, to see Major Kearny in a new and more important
sphere of action.
During the whole of the last war with Great Britain cavalry was not once
employed as a battle-piece, and in spite of the great services of the
horse which had been commanded, during the revolution, by Cols. Lee and
Washington, and by Count Pulaski, this great arm had become most
unpopular. Consequently, on the reduction, no skeleton even of a corps
had been retained—the sabres were locked up, the saddles and horses
sold, and the officers and men disbanded. The policy, however, of
disposing the eastern tribes along the western frontier, and the rapid
strides of emigration west ward, brought the army into contact with the
mounted tribes of the prairie, who evidently could never be overtaken or
punished for depredations they at that time used to commit, by
foot-soldiers, armed with heavy muskets, and laden down with knapsacks
and camp equipage. Of this evident proof had been obtained in the
expedition of Gen. Atkinson, mentioned above, and other excursions which
had brought the officers and men of the 6th, 3rd and 1st infantry into
contact with the nomad tribes of the Camanch. If other demonstration
were required, it was furnished by the events of the Black Hawk war,
when it became necessary to raise a body of mounted gunmen for special
service, which was done under the auspices of the present distinguished
Senator from Wisconsin, Mr. Dodge. These troops, called Rangers, did
good service enough to induce Congress to authorize the levy of a strict
cavalry corps called Dragoons. The whole army, with very few exceptions,
was impressed with the necessity of this corps, for which the most
distinguished men in their several grades of the service applied. On its
organization, Major Kearny was appointed lieutenant-colonel of the
regiment, and on him depended almost exclusively the discipline, the
colonel, Dodge, though a brave man, not having the military education or
experience requisite to make him the active head of a new corps, in the
details of which not only men but officers were to be instructed. Col.
Kearny, during his long seclusion in the west, had been a patient
student, and had made himself master of all the theory of his
profession, and in a short time made his regiment one of the best in the
world. Within less than a year after the first muster of the regiment,
it was sent, under its colonel, as a part of the command with which the
lamented Gen. Leavenworth marched to the Spanish Peaks. This disastrous
march, in the course of which so many men and officers died, was most
trying to a new corps, which had no guide to direct them. Here all the
experience of the old world was at fault. Cavalry had there to march but
from one hamlet to another, finding forage and grain everywhere. Here
eight hundred miles of wilderness were to be overcome, and more than
once the jaded horses were without even water. This proved the
perfectness of the regiment, and the thoroughness of the discipline
which induced the gallant and veteran Gen. Gaines to speak, in an
official letter, of the first dragoons as “the best troops I ever saw;”
and the officer who had defended Fort Erie, beaten back a victorious
enemy at Chrysler’s Field, and received the keys of St. Augustine,
certainly knew what a soldier was.
In 1835, Col. Kearny visited with one wing of his regiment, the Sioux,
on the Upper Missouri, and had the satisfaction at a council to
reconcile the long animosity between them and the Sauks and Foxes. He
also made a long march to the head-waters of the Mississippi, visiting
the village of Wabisha, and effecting a cessation of the trespassing of
the British subjects, from the Earl of Selkirk’s settlement at Pembina,
on the territories of the United States. In July, 1836, he was made
colonel of the first dragoons; and from this period a sketch of his
services would be almost a history of the West, not one trouble on the
frontier occurred in the settlement of which he was not instrumental;
and with six companies of his regiment he was able to protect a line of
frontier eight hundred miles long. Stationed at Fort Leavenworth, be
made himself the idol of the West, and devoting himself to his regiment,
made its discipline perfect. He had now acquired a high rank, and the
qualities he had always possessed became conspicuous. Bland in his
manners, but of iron firmness, kind to his juniors, his equals, or those
nearly so, requiring the strictest obedience, measuring his expectations
by the rank of the officer, his conduct became proverbial. To his men he
was most considerate, so that they looked on him as a protector. It is
believed that during the whole time he commanded the first dragoons no
soldier ever received a blow, except by the sentence of a general court
martial for the infamous crime of desertion. The lash disappeared, and
though probably the strictest disciplinarian in the service, there was
less punishment in his corps than in any other. About this time the
system of drill of the dragoons was changed, and he was long engrossed
in the instruction of his regiment, having the troublesome task of
unlearning them all he had taught of the old system, from which the new
one differed entirely in mode and principle of combination.
In the year 1839, the two Ridges, father and son, and Elias Boudinot,
chiefs of the Cherokees, were murdered by a hostile clique of their own
tribe, and there seemed imminent danger that a war would originate.
Immediately on the receipt of the news of a possible collision, Col.
Kearny determined to proceed to the scene. The officer of the
quarter-master’s department on duty with him being unable to furnish the
requisite funds, the colonel provided them from his own resources, and
after a very rapid march appeared with six companies of his regiment at
Fort Wayne. Words can not express the difference between his companies
and those in garrison at that post; the beautiful condition of the men
and horses of the first, and the rough-coated nags and unclean condition
of the men of the second. After the difficulty had gone by, he effected
an exchange of garrisons, and with the neglected and abused left wing,
proceeded to Fort Leavenworth, where, in a short time these companies
became equal in discipline to the others of the corps. The companies of
the Fort Wayne garrison which he took with him to Leavenworth, were
those which, under the command of the gallant and lamented Capt.
Burgwin, and the excellent soldier, Major Grier, did such good service,
and so much distinguished themselves in the campaign in New Mexico
against the revolters and the Pueblo and Navajo Indians.
In 1842, he was appointed to the command of the third military
department, with head-quarters at St. Louis. There he remained until
1846, with the exception of his long march to the South Pass of the
Rocky Mountains in 1845. There is no doubt that this is one of the most
extraordinary marches on record, both from its distance, its rapidity,
and the fact that he passed among semi-hostile tribes nearly two
thousand miles; crossed deep and rapid streams by swimming, gave
protection to the immense army of emigrants _en route_ to California,
and returned without losing a man or horse.
In 1846, the war with Mexico began, and he was assigned to the command
of the army of the West with orders to occupy New Mexico and California.
To reach Santa Fe an immense march was to be undertaken across a country
but sparsely furnished with wood and water, and where no supplies were
to be met with or obtained until the enemy’s country should be reached,
and in all probability a battle fought and won. To accomplish this,
precisely such a man as Col. Kearny was required. He was familiar with
the service, and possessed the unbounded confidence of the people of
Missouri, from which state the volunteers who were to compose the main
body of his army were to be drawn. In a most unprecedented short time
the men were enrolled, and all necessaries supplied, and before Armijo,
the governor of New Mexico was aware of his approach, the army was in
the capital of the province. Like Cæsar, Gen. Kearny might say, “I came,
I saw, I conquered.”
Immediately before the capture of Santa Fe, Col. Kearny had received his
promotion to the grade of Brigadier-General, and abandoned to his
successor the standard of a regiment he had borne from the Gulf of
Mexico to the head-waters of the Mississippi, and which was to be the
first flag of the army which waved on the shores of the Pacific. After
obeying his orders, and providing for the future peace of the country,
he proceeded to California, across a country where an army had never
marched before, and which was considered impassable. Cold, a wilderness,
absolute barrenness, were all to be overcome. Scarcely, however, had he
set out on this expedition than he was met by an express, informing him
that California was conquered. Relying on this, he sent back all his
troops except one hundred men, and proceeded to the valley of the Gila.
Of the sufferings of his men, of the almost starvation which forced them
to eat the flesh of the emaciated dragoon-horses which had borne them so
far we will not speak. When he emerged into the fertile country, it was
not until after severe contests against immense odds, and until he had
lost many favorite officers and picked men, to all of whom he had become
endeared by participation in the dangers of a march across the American
continent.
On the 2d of December, 1846, Gen. Kearny arrived at Warner’s Rancho, one
of the extreme eastward settlements of California. He there learned
certainly what he had previously heard from a party of Californians,
that the population had risen against the invaders and that Andreas Pico
was near San Diego with a superior party, intending to give him battle.
Though exhausted by a long march, and mounted on broken-down mules, Gen.
Kearny hurried to attack him. On the night of December 5, he heard that
Pico was at the village of San Pascual, and on the next morning met him.
At once a charge was ordered, which broke Pico’s line and forced it to
retreat. After a flight of half a mile, however, it was rallied and
charged the head of the American force, and lanced many of the foremost
men. A desperate hand to hand fight ensued, which resulted in the
discomfiture of Pico, not, however, until Captains Moore and Johnston,
and Lieutenant Hammond, and sixteen men had been killed, and fourteen
persons wounded, including the general himself, and all the officers
except Captain Turner, who, though he greatly distinguished himself,
escaped untouched. The inequality of the contest was immense, when we
remember that the Californians, the most superb horsemen in the world,
were mounted on excellent chargers, while the dragoons were on mules
which had marched from Santa Fe. The dead were buried; this sad duty,
and the necessity of making further arrangements, detained the party all
day. On the next day the march was resumed, but encumbered as they were,
they were able to proceed but nine miles when the enemy charged them
again. The needful preparations to receive them were made, when the
enemy wheeled off, and attempted to occupy an eminence which commanded
the route. From this, after a sharp skirmish, they were driven with some
loss, and then Gen. Kearny encamped. As Pico evidently intended to
dispute every pass, the general determined to remain where he was until
reinforcements, for which he had sent to the naval commander at San
Diego, should arrive. Four days afterward a force of marines, under
Capt. Zelin, U. S. M. C. and of sailors, commanded by Lieutenant Gray,
arrived, and with this force Gen. Kearny marched without molestation to
San Diego, a distance of thirty miles. A difficulty about the command
here arose between Commodore Stockton and Gen. Kearny, which could not
be settled in California, where the naval commander had far the superior
force. It did not prevent their undertaking a joint expedition against
Puebla de los Angelos, which was in possession of a strong Mexican force
under Flores.
On the 8th of January the Mexicans were met six hundred strong, with
four guns, in the face of whom the American force of sailors, marines,
and the remnant of the dragoons, forded the river, and after a short,
sharp, and decisive affair, drove them from the field. On the next day
the enemy again appeared, and, as usual, were beaten, and on the 10th
Puebla de los Angelos was occupied. At these affairs both the naval and
army commanders were present, and the question of who was commander
added somewhat to the difficulty already existing between them. At this
time Lieut. Col. J. C. Fremont, then of the mounted rifles, commanded a
numerous body of volunteers in California. Gen. Kearny ordered this
officer to join him. This Col. Fremont did not do, but on the contrary,
considered Com. Stockton as his commander. Consequently, when on the
arrival of land reinforcements from the United States, Gen. Kearny
assumed and maintained his command, he ordered Col. Fremont to accompany
him home. Col. Fremont was subsequently arrested and tried for this
dereliction of duty, found guilty of mutinous conduct, and sentenced to
be dismissed the service. A portion of the court which tried him having
recommended the remission of the sentence, the President acquiesced, and
he was ordered to duty, but immediately resigned his commission. The
prosecution of the charges against Col. Fremont detained Gen. Kearny in
Washington during a portion of the winter of ’47 and ’48, and was,
doubtless, most painful to him, for no man in the army had previously
borne a higher character for soldiership than Col. Fremont. The court
martial fully sustained Gen. Kearny in every pretension, and but one
person has been found in America to cavil at the sentence.
In the spring of 1848, Gen. Kearny was ordered to Mexico, whither he
proceeded at once. All hostilities were, however, then over, and though
he was in the discharge of his duty, his service there was uneventful.
On the conclusion of the war he returned home, and was assigned to the
command of the military division of which St. Louis is the
head-quarters. He there had the proud satisfaction to receive the brevet
of major-general for his services in New Mexico and California. He had,
however, brought with him the seeds of an insidious disease which soon
overcame his strength, enfeebled as it was by privations and trials of
every kind. He died at St. Louis, October 31, 1848, leaving a wife and a
family of young sons to regret him.
In the eventful career of Gen. Kearny he had always been distinguished
as one of the best officers of his grade in the service. From a
subaltern to the highest rank he rose, every step having been won by
service. He was bland in his manners, dispassionate and calm. Quick and
ready in forming his opinions, he yet did not act hastily, and when once
he had decided, was immutable in his course. A great student and
thinker, he never talked except when he had something to say, yet
possessed a fund of anecdote and universal information rarely to be met
with. In the West he was a popular idol, so that the whole population
acquiesced in the apparently arbitrary steps he was often called on to
take in the discharge of his duty. To his subalterns he was endeared by
a thousand kindnesses, and to the whole army by respect and admiration.
He left in all the army list no one superior to him in personal courage,
science in his profession, or the minor qualities which contribute so
much to make the soldier.
Immediately on the receipt of the news of his death, the Secretary of
War, Mr. Marcy, published an order containing the following high tribute
to his important services.
“War Department.
_Washington, Nov. 6, 1848._
The President with feelings of deep regret announces to the Army
the death of Brigadier-General Stephen W. Kearny, Major-General
by brevet. The honorable and useful career of this gallant
officer terminated on the 31st of October at St. Louis, in
consequence of a disease contracted while in the discharge of
his official duties in Mexico.
General Kearny entered the army in 1812 as lieutenant, and
continued in it until his death—a period of more than
thirty-six years. His character and bearing as an accomplished
officer were unsurpassed, and challenge the admiration of his
fellow citizens and the emulation of his professional brethren.
His conquest of New Mexico and valuable services in California
have inseparably connected his name with the future destiny of
these territories, and it will be ever held in grateful
remembrance by the successive generations which will inhabit
these extensive regions of our confederacy.”
He was buried in St. Louis by the 7th and 8th regiments of infantry and
a squadron of that regiment of dragoons which he had made so famous,
commanded by one of his favorite captains, the present Col. E. V.
Sumner, of the 1st dragoons. All the city of St. Louis accompanied the
cortège to pay their last tribute of respect to the general and the MAN.
* * * * *
I WILL BE A MINER TOO.
BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL.
All around me men are delving,
Deep within the troubled earth,
Searching for the darksome treasures
Hidden since creation’s birth.
Wearying toil and ceaseless effort
Bring the buried ore to view;—
Though I be but feeble woman,
I will be a miner too!
Heart of mine! thou art a cavern,
Sad and silent, dark and deep—
In thy fathomless recesses
Spirit gnomes their treasures keep.
Gems of love, and hope, and joyance,
Bury there their flashing beam—
Wilder passions fret their prison
With the fierceness of their gleam.
Though unburnished, prized and precious,
To the enraptured poet’s sight,
As the jewels, proudly flashing,
On the brow of beauty bright.
True, unto the sordid worldling
These are gems of little worth,
Yet, for thee, high-hearted poet!
I will strive to bring them forth!
Lamp of truth, my brow adorning,
Lighting up the weary way—
I, in pain, will probe my bosom,
Bare its treasures to the day.
Wearying toil and ceaseless effort
Bring the buried ore to view;—
Though I be but feeble woman,
I will be a miner too!
* * * * *
THE EMIGRANT’S DAUGHTERS.
BY GRETTA.
I had but two; they were my only treasure,
Two lovely daughters of the imperial isle;
They gave my quiet hearth-stone every pleasure,
They gave my lone heart every sunny smile,
And to your land I brought them o’er the sea,
To hear the tones which tell of Liberty!
They were twin lasses; one was like the Rose,
With deep, dark crimson on its opening breast;
The other like the Daisy, when it glows
With evening’s pearls upon its snowy crest.
And when they nestled near me lovingly,
They were like morn and quiet eve to me.
But she, the golden haired, is with the stars!
She, the blue-eyed, the fondest of the twain,
For her was opened heaven’s glorious bars,
Just as the sun was sinking in the main,
And flowers less fair, each in its soft green nest,
On the far shore, had sunk like her to rest.
Upon the waves she died—the sounding waves—
The sands her pillow, and the weeds her pall;
And there the deepest, tideless water laves
The mortal part of half my little all;
And though I know her soul is bright above,
Still earth is desolate without her love.
She drooped from day to day—within my arms
I cradled her dear form, so slight, so fair,
And gazed with doating love upon her charms,
While my big tears were glistening in her hair,
Till o’er her upturned eyes the fringed-lid fell,
And soft she said—I know she said—“Farewell!”
She died without a moan, without a sigh;
A golden day had faded in the west,
And mother Night descending from on high,
Was hushing Nature to her dreamy rest;
And ere another day broke o’er the sea,
Deep rolled the waves between my child and me.
I chanted o’er her lays of her old home—
And she, the stricken mourner by my side,
Mingled her tears with ocean’s moonlit foam,
And sent her wail upon the shoreless tide.
Oh! it was sad to hear that heart-wrung moan
On the wild sea, so vast, so still, so lone!
On my own native Scotland’s hallowed ground,
In a low glen, from worldly din afar,
The stars look down upon the grassy mound
Where _she_ is laid—my young life’s morning star—
And in the trackless deep, the bud she gave
From her fond bosom, fills a briny grave.
And with this one, all that my heart has left,
I raise my altar where your heaven glows;
Here the lone pair, of all they loved bereft,
Would find in you, Bethesda for their woes.
They’ll think of home, with memory’s burning tear,
But turn to meet Hope’s smiling welcome here!
* * * * *
JASPER ST. AUBYN;
OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.
INTRODUCTION.
In the commencement of the seventeenth century, there stood among the
woody hills and romantic gorges which sweep southwardly down from the
bleak expanse of Dartmoor, one of those fine old English halls, which,
dating from the reign of the last of the Tudors, united so much of
modern comfort with so much of antique architectural beauty. Many
specimens of this style of building are still to be found scattered
throughout England, with their broad terraces, their quaintly sculptured
porticoes, their tall projecting oriels, their many stacks of richly
decorated chimneys, and their heraldic bearings adorning every salient
point, grotesquely carved in the red freestone, which is their most
usual, as indeed their most appropriate material. No one, however,
existed, it is probable, at that day, more perfect in proportion to its
size, or more admirably suited to its wild and romantic site, than the
manor-house of Widecomb-Under-Moor, or, as it was more generally called
in its somewhat sequestered neighborhood, the House in the Woods. Even
at the present time, that is a very rural and little frequented
district; its woods are more extensive, its moorlands wilder, its
streams less often turned to purposes of manufacturing utility, than in
any other tract of the southern counties; but at the time of which I
write, when all England was comparatively speaking an agricultural
country; when miles and miles of forest existed, where there now can
scarcely be found acres; when the communications even between the
neighboring country towns were difficult and tedious, and those between
the country and metropolis almost impracticable; the region of Dartmoor
and its surrounding woodlands was less known and less frequented, except
by its own inhabitants, rude for the most part and uncultured as their
native hills, than the prairies of the Far West, or the solitudes of the
Rocky Mountains.
The few gentry, and lords of manors who owned estates, and had their
|
the battle of
Bunker Hill, and used to recount the tale to his children and
grandchildren every Fourth of July,--how Putnam went along the line and
commanded them not to fire until they could see the whites of the
Redcoats' eyes; and how Abbot, the strongest man in town, bore a wounded
comrade off the field on his back. On the anniversary of the battle he
invariably invited his comrades in the fight to his house, and
entertained them with New England rum and hearty, old-fashioned
hospitality, while the veterans fought the battle o'er again. He sat
among the veterans of the battle at Webster's magnificent oration in
dedication of the Bunker Hill monument. On his eighty-fourth birthday he
worked with his men in the hay field, keeping up with the best all day,
and suffered no ill effect from the unwonted exertion. He died April 13,
1834, at the age of eighty-seven. In 1799 he gave the tract of land upon
which was erected Franklin Academy, on the hill north of the
meeting-house.
Jonathan's brother James, Captain James's other son, also served in the
Revolutionary war, and left a diary of the siege of Boston, recently
discovered in the garret of an old mansion in Andover, which opens like
an epic:--
"April ye 19, 1775. This morning about seven o'clock we had a larum
that the Regulars were gone to Concord. We gathered to the meeting
house, and then started for Concord. We went through Tewksbury into
Billerica. We stopped at Pollard's, and ate some biscuits and cheese
on the common. We started and went on to Bedford, and we heard that
the Regulars had gone back to Boston. So we went through Bedford. As
we went into Lexington we went to the meeting house, and there we
came to the destruction of the Regulars. They killed eight of our
men, and shot a cannon ball through the meeting house. We went along
through Lexington, and we saw several Regulars dead on the road, and
some of our men, and three or four houses were burnt, and some
horses and hogs were killed. They plundered in every house they
could get into. They stove in windows and broke in tops of desks. We
met the men a coming back very fast," etc.
Jonathan's fourth son was Isaac, born in 1785. On reaching manhood he
went before the mast on a voyage to China, and brought back, as a gift
to his mother, a beautiful china tea-set. After his return from sea he
went to Andover, Maine, to settle upon the lands bestowed by his father
upon himself and brothers, Jonathan and James.
With characteristic energy, Isaac Stevens set to work clearing his land,
and reducing rebellious nature to orderly submission. While thus at work
in the woods one day, a heavy tree fell upon and crushed him to the
earth; his left leg was terribly mangled, the bones broken in two
places, and he received other serious injuries. The doctors insisted
that the leg must be taken off in order to save his life, but Isaac
Stevens with inflexible resolution refused to allow the amputation, and
after a long, painful illness finally recovered. The limb, however, in
the process of healing, became materially shorter and permanently
stiffened, so that he was unable to bend the knee joint, and during the
remainder of his life the wound broke out afresh periodically, and
caused him great suffering. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to
bear the journey, he returned to his native Andover, where, under his
mother's careful nursing, he slowly recovered from the terrible injuries
he had received.
It was at this time that he formed an attachment with Hannah Cummings,
the daughter of a sterling farmer family like his own, and who united to
a warm and affectionate heart, noble and elevated sentiments, strong
good sense, and untiring industry. Their marriage followed soon after,
on the 29th of September, 1814. He now relinquished the project of
settling in Maine, and hired an old farmhouse with some twenty acres of
land of Mr. Bridges. This house, one of the oldest in Andover, is
situated at the end of Marble Ridge, a short distance south of the Great
Pond, and at the point where the road from the village to Haverhill,
after crossing the Essex Railroad, forks, the left branch leading on to
Haverhill, while the other turns short to the right and conducts to
Marble Ridge Station. The solid timbers and stockaded sides of the rear
part of this old house--for the front is a later structure--were the
mute witnesses of a stratagem in early Indian troubles as novel as it
proved successful. The stout-hearted farmer settler was alone, with his
wife and little ones about him, one night, when he discovered a large
party of savages stealthily approaching, and spreading out so as to
encompass his house. Hastily barricading the doors, he seized his
trumpet, which he bore as trumpeter of the military company of the
settlement, stole unperceived out of the house, caught and mounted his
horse, and, making a circuit through the fields, gained the high road
between the Indians and the village. Then, putting spurs to his steed,
and pealing blast upon blast from his trumpet, he charged furiously down
upon the Indians, now in the very act of assailing his domicile, who,
thinking no doubt that the whole force of the country-side was upon
them, incontinently fled into the forest.
Judged by the standard of these days, the young couple had an
unpromising future. They were very poor, the husband a cripple, and they
held as tenants a few barren acres from which to extract a livelihood.
But Isaac Stevens now toiled early and late with untiring energy; he
saved at every point, and turned everything to account with true Yankee
thrift. He built a malt-house, and after laboring on the farm from
earliest dawn until dark, would work at preparing the malt until late in
the evening. His farm embraced a large meadow lying on both sides of the
Cochichewick, just below where it issued from the Great Pond, but now
flooded by the milldams still lower down, where he cut vast quantities
of meadow hay, with which he filled his barns and fed a goodly number of
horned stock during the long, rigorous winters, realizing thereby a
handsome profit in the spring. His young wife joined her efforts to his,
and frequently cut and made clothing for the neighbors around, in
addition to the unceasing and arduous labors of a farmer's wife. Such
thrift and industry could not fail of success. The Bridges house and
land were purchased, largely on mortgage at first; then the wet meadow
was added; then a goodly tract of generous land was bought of the
father, Jonathan Stevens, and other fields and tracts were added from
time to time. During the thirteen years following their marriage, the
first scanty holding grew to a farm of one hundred and fifty acres of
their own, and free from debt. Seven children, too, came to bless their
union and increase their cares. Then the devoted wife and mother died,
November 3, 1827, leaving this helpless little flock, the oldest of whom
was but twelve and the youngest two years of age. Henceforth life was a
heavy and unceasing labor to Isaac Stevens. The little farm grew no
larger, and all his efforts were now required to maintain his family and
keep free from debt. Two years afterwards he married Ann Poor, of North
Andover, impelled by his situation and circumstances, with so many
helpless children about him and the household economy of the farm
unprovided for. The second wife failed to restore the happiness of home.
She had no children, and died in 1866, four years after her husband.
Isaac Stevens was a man of deeply marked and noble characteristics. His
fortitude was severely tested by the misfortune which left him a
lifelong cripple. His cool courage and inflexible resolution are best
illustrated by his manner of dealing with a dangerous bull he once
owned. This animal grew daily more and more savage, until every one
stood in fear of it except the owner, who, as often happens in such
cases, persisted in thinking it quite harmless. At length, however, the
bull one day chased a neighbor, who had imprudently ventured to cross
the field in which it pastured, and overtaking him just as he reached
the fence, tossed him high in air, so that falling fortunately on the
farther side of the inclosure, he escaped with no more serious injuries
than some severe bruises and a broken nose. The bull, furious at the
escape of his prey, was bellowing and pawing the ground. "The bull must
be shot!" cried the man who helped off the injured neighbor. But Isaac
Stevens at once armed himself with a stout cudgel, coolly hobbled into
the field, disregarding all remonstrances and entreaties, fixed his eye
upon the enraged beast, backed him into a narrow corner where he could
not escape, and thrashed him over the head with the club with such
terrible severity that he was completely subdued, and ever after
remained perfectly gentle and submissive.
Always strictly observing the Sabbath, he held liberal views of religion
and attended the Unitarian Church. He kept himself informed of the
current events of the day, taking the New York "Tribune" and Garrison's
"Liberator," and manifesting the greatest interest in education,
temperance, anti-slavery, and every cause that would make mankind better
or happier. "How he denied himself all comforts almost, and _quietly_
sent money to free the slave and for the temperance cause! He was a
strong pillar of the foundation principles of right and justice that it
would be well for young men of this day to study," said one who knew him
well.
He was, above all, a man of perfect integrity and truth, and of a strict
sense of justice. There was not a fibre of guile or indirection in his
moral nature. He held strong and ardent convictions, noble and lofty
ideals of duty and philanthropy, and an intense hatred and scorn of
wrong or oppression in any form. He strongly opposed and denounced the
use of liquors and tobacco, and became early in life a vehement and
outspoken abolitionist of slavery, at a period when the advocacy of such
doctrines demanded unusual moral courage as well as stern conviction of
right. At his decease, years afterwards, he bequeathed five hundred
dollars to the Anti-Slavery Society, requiring only that Wendell
Phillips should deliver a lecture in the parish church of North Andover.
The untiring industry which, with his frugality and good management,
enabled him to achieve comparative independence so early in life, was
not the course of a drudge and miser, but of an ardent, resolute spirit
spurning poverty, debt, and dependence. All through life he manifested
an unconquerable aversion to debt. He loved a fast horse, and the old
mare which he kept until she died, over twenty-seven years old, was, in
her prime, the fastest in the town. After reading a newspaper or book,
he was in the habit of giving it to a neighbor, telling him to hand it
to another after perusing it. He took great pains with his orchards, and
planted apple-trees along the stone walls bordering his fields. He also
planted the noble elms now overhanging the old farmhouse, and the long
lines of this graceful tree now bordering the road from the house to the
crest of the hill overlooking the village and the road over Marble
Ridge, and the numerous clumps and rows in his fields wherever a sightly
eminence seemed to require such an adornment.
His children were:--
HANNAH PEABODY, born September 24, 1815, died November 24, 1840.
SUSAN BRAGG, born February 14, 1817, died April 8, 1841.
ISAAC INGALLS, born March 25, 1818, died September 1, 1862.
ELIZABETH BARKER, born July 14, 1819, died December 10, 1846.
SARAH ANN, born January 13, 1822, died February 8, 1844.
MARY JANE, born August 5, 1823, died June 22, 1847.
OLIVER, born June 22, 1825.
The following account of the ancestry of Hannah Cummings is given by her
nephew, Dr. George Mooar, D.D., of Oakland, California, who has
collected much information concerning the Cummings genealogy:--
"Hannah, wife of Isaac Stevens, was the third child of Deacon Asa
and Hannah (Peabody) Cummings, born October 23, 1785, married
September 29, 1814, and died November 3, 1827.
"The line from her father to the first American ancestor runs thus:
Asa (6), Thomas (5), Joseph (4), Abraham (3), John (2), Isaac (1).
"Deacon Asa was born in Andover, Massachusetts, but removed in 1798
to Albany, Maine, a pioneer settler there, a trusted, intelligent,
and capable citizen, who in 1803 represented his district in the
General Court.
"Captain Thomas (5) was born in Topsfield and died September 3,
1765. He married Anna Kittell, the widow of Asa Johnson, of Andover.
"Captain Joseph (4), of Topsfield, was quite a character. The
biographer of Dr. Manasseh Cutler says that he found among the
papers of that eminent person a notice of Captain Cummings in which
he is spoken of as a remarkable man, well versed in the politics of
the day, and he adds: 'From the interest Dr. Cutler felt in him, he
must have been a stanch patriot and Federalist.' In a notice which
appears in the 'Salem Gazette' we are told that when nearly a
hundred he would readily mount his horse from the ground. He died in
his one hundred and second year.
"Abraham (3) was a resident of Woburn and of Dunstable.
"John (2) was quite a large proprietor in Boxford, Massachusetts,
and later was one of the first fourteen proprietors of the town of
Dunstable.
"Isaac (1) appears on a list of the 'Commoners of Ipswich in 1641,
but appears to have arrived in America three years before. No exact
knowledge of his previous residence in Great Britain has been
obtained. The prevailing tradition gives him a Scottish descent.'
"An elder brother of Hannah Cummings was Dr. Asa Cummings, D.D., of
Portland, Maine, eminent for classical learning and piety, and
editor of the 'Christian Mirror' for many years."
CHAPTER II
BIRTH.--BOYHOOD
ISAAC INGALLS STEVENS first saw the light at the old Marble Ridge
farmhouse, on the 25th of March, 1818. He was a delicate infant, and it
was impossible for his mother, with her other little ones and the
engrossing labors of the farmhouse, to bestow upon him the care his
condition required. His grandmother, one day visiting the farm, was
shocked to see him still in his cradle, though three years old, and,
remarking that unless he was taught soon he never would walk, insisted
upon taking him home with her, where, under her gentle and experienced
hands, he quickly learned to run about. After returning home his father
used to plunge him, fresh from bed, into a hogshead of cold water every
morning.
Such heroic treatment would be sure to kill or cure, and perhaps no
better proof could be given of the native vigor of his constitution than
the fact that he lived, and became strong, active, and hardy.
Even as a child he was active, daring, and adventurous. He used to climb
the lofty elms in front of his grandfather's house, and cling like a
squirrel to the topmost branches, laughing and chattering defiance to
his grandmother's commands and entreaties to come down.
One afternoon Abiel Holt, the hired man on the farm, went a-fishing for
pickerel, and took Isaac, who was then a very little urchin just able to
run about cleverly. After catching a fine string of fish, they came to
the old causeway which crossed the water where now stands the dam under
the Essex Railroad, but which was then submerged several feet deep in
the water for some distance.
A rude footway had been contrived here by driving down forked stakes at
suitable intervals along the causeway, and placing loose poles in the
crotches from stake to stake, forming one row for the feet and another a
little higher for the hands.
The contrivance was rickety and unsafe to the last degree; the poles
swayed and bent at every step, and it required great care and the use of
both feet and hands to avoid a ducking. It was now time to drive up the
cows, which were pasturing beyond the water; so Holt, bidding the child
remain there, crossed over after them, taking with him the string of
fish, which he hung up on one of the stakes on the farther side, for he
wanted the pleasure of taking his spoils home in triumph, and feared, if
he left them with Isaac, the latter would take them and run home while
he was away. On returning he was struck with consternation to find no
trace of either the child or the fish. He carefully scrutinized the
water without result, and at length slowly returned to the farmhouse,
filled with misgivings, and was not a little relieved to find both his
charge and his fish safe at home. The child had worked his way across
the water by the poles, although, standing on the lower row, he could
hardly reach the upper one with extended arms, and had returned, holding
the string of fish in his teeth, in the same way. His father ever after
was particularly fond of relating this anecdote in proof of the daring
and adventurous spirit so early manifested.
[Illustration: BIRTHPLACE OF GENERAL STEVENS, ANDOVER, MASS.
_From Historical Sketches of Andover, by Sarah Loring
Bailey_]
He was a sensitive, earnest child, not demonstrative, but having great
affection and tenderness, which he lavished upon his mother. Her early
death was his first and greatest misfortune. When he was only seven
years old, his father, who always drove furiously, in driving with
his wife in his wagon rapidly around a corner, overset the vehicle. They
were thrown out violently upon the ground, and the unfortunate mother
struck upon her head. From this shock she never really recovered, and
died two years after the unhappy accident. During this period Isaac
attached himself closely to his mother, and acquired no slight influence
over her. The early death of this tender and devoted wife and mother
well-nigh destroyed the happiness of her family. Isaac ever cherished
her memory with the tenderest veneration. He thought that from her were
inherited great part of his talents, and that had she lived he would
have been spared the injudicious forcing of his mind in his childhood,
to which he always declared he owed a real mental injury.
After the mother's death, a housekeeper was employed to provide for the
helpless little flock, and attend to the household duties; and two years
later the father married his second wife, Ann Poor.
Isaac was sent to school before his fifth year, where from the first he
displayed great power of memory, close application, and devotion to
study. His teachers were astonished to find that he did not stop at the
end of the day's lesson, but habitually learned far beyond it, often
reciting page after page. It was said that there was no need of telling
Isaac how much to study; it was enough to show him where to begin, and
he would learn more than the teacher cared to hear. His first teacher,
Miss Susan Foster, said with astonishment one day, after hearing his
lesson in arithmetic, "There is no use for me to teach him arithmetic;
he is already far beyond me in that."
After his tenth year he attended Franklin Academy, in North
Andover,--Old Put's school, as it was usually and more familiarly
styled,--kept by Mr. Simon Putnam, who attained great repute as a
teacher. This was situated on the hill north of the meeting-house, on
land given for the purpose by grandfather Jonathan. Here he studied the
usual English branches. Among his schoolmates were William Endicott,
Jr., the well-known philanthropist, Hon. Daniel Saunders, the late
George B. Loring, and Major George T. Clark. It appears that wrestling
was a favorite sport with the active and hardy boys at this school.
His father, proud and ambitious on his account, kept him constantly at
school, and urged on to still greater efforts this earnest, ardent
nature, intense in everything he undertook. The evil effects of such
mistaken treatment soon made themselves felt. His mind became wearied
and dull from overtasking. The teacher advised rest. The boy, then but
ten years old, begged his father to take him out of school and let him
work on the farm, telling him that he could no longer study; that he
could not learn his lessons. But the father refused, not realizing the
son's condition, and bade him go back to school and study what he could.
Isaac then went to his uncle Nathaniel, who owned the Cochichewick
woolen mills, situated two miles below the farm, and obtained his
permission to work in the factory for a year. He prevailed upon his
grandmother to let him lodge at her house in order to be nearer the
factory; and having thus decided upon his course, went home and informed
his father of the arrangements he had made, who, astonished at the
judgment and resolution of the boy, acquiesced. So Isaac went to work in
the factory, lodging at his grandfather's, rising long before daylight
that he might eat a hurried breakfast, walk a mile to the factory, and
begin the day's work at five o'clock in the morning, and toiling ten to
twelve hours a day. He entered the weavers' room, where he soon learned
to manage a loom. The best weavers were women, it seems, and able to
run two looms apiece. Isaac at once determined to excel the most
capable; and before he left the factory, succeeded in reaching the goal
of his ambition, and managed four looms unassisted.
After a year of this unremitting labor, he left the mills. As he was
returning home with the scanty sum he had earned in his pocket, taking
it to his father, he passed a shop where some tempting hot gingerbread
was displayed for sale, and felt an intense longing to buy a
penny-worth; but reflecting that his earnings belonged to his father,
and it would be wrong for him to spend any of them, he overcame the
desire and went home. But when he handed the money to his father, and
asked for a cent to buy the gingerbread with, he felt stung to the quick
by the latter's refusal. In truth, the father's hard struggle with
poverty and adverse circumstances had narrowed his noble nature. Too
much had life become to him nothing but hard work, self-sacrifice, and a
severe sense of duty. He did not appreciate the sensitive nature of a
child, and its needs of sympathy, recreation, and occasional indulgence.
Directly across the road from the house was a small pool called the
frog-pond. Isaac selected a corner of this pond for his garden, filled
it up with stones, and covered them with rich earth brought from a
distance in his little cart with great pains and labor. He eagerly
seized every moment that could be spared from school and his unceasing
round of morning and evening chores to devote to this darling project.
At last the garden was prepared, and planted with his own favorite
seeds. But his father, fearing that it might distract and take up too
much time from his studies and duties about the farm, rudely uprooted
his tenderly cared-for plants, and put in potatoes instead.
On another occasion his father's injudicious urging nearly proved
fatal. Isaac was helping in the hay-field, and was working with such
ardor and had accomplished so much that his father was actually
astonished. Instead of restraining, he praised him without stint. Under
this stimulus the ambitious boy redoubled his exertions until he was
prostrated by a sunstroke, resulting in a raging fever, from which he
barely escaped with life after a severe sickness.
On another occasion, when twelve years old, he was working in the
hay-field, pitching hay upon the cart; he was badly ruptured, and had to
be carried to the house. As soon as he was able to travel he went alone
to Boston, and sought out Dr. Warren, a noted surgeon, and laid his case
before him. Dr. Warren was so much struck with the lad's courage and
intelligence that he refused to accept any fee. "If you do exactly what
I tell you, you will get well," he said, "and I know you will do so from
looking in your face." The surgeon had a truss made, and prescribed
treatment, but all the remainder of his life Isaac was obliged to wear
the truss, although he outgrew the injury in a measure until it broke
out afresh in Mexico from over-exertion.
Measured by modern conditions, it was a severe and laborious home life
in which the farmer's boy grew up, but it was a wholesome one, and well
adapted to bring out all his powers. Morning and evening, throughout the
year, he had his round of duties, feeding and milking the cows, feeding
the pigs, cutting and bringing in wood, etc. During the winter he rose
long before daylight to attend to these chores and shovel snow from the
paths, then after a hasty breakfast trudged away to school, and on
returning again resumed the round of unending farm work. In summer there
was no school for three or four months, and then he worked on the farm,
hoeing corn, making hay, driving oxen, and performing all the hard and
varied labors of a New England farmer's son. But the New England farmers
of that day were the owners of the soil. They knew no superiors. The
Revolutionary struggle, as recent to them as the great Rebellion is to
us, was fresh and vivid in their minds, and stimulated noble ideas of
liberty and national independence. The standard of personal honesty,
manhood, and morals, bequeathed from their Puritan ancestry, was high.
Such was the moral atmosphere of Isaac Stevens's household, heightened
by his own earnest, philanthropic, and elevated sentiments. All his
children were intellectual and high-minded, and nothing can be more
touching than the constant ambition and striving of his five daughters
for education and self-improvement. All became teachers, but died young,
victims of consumption.
Nor was the life of the youth nothing but a round of hard work and
privation. If he worked hard and studied hard, he enjoyed play with
equal zest, and shared the rougher sports of those days with his cousins
and other boys of his age. They were more pugnacious and rougher than
nowadays. Wrestling was a common sport, and boyish fights and scuffles
were usual.
At the age of fifteen he entered Phillips Academy in Andover. Nathan W.
Hazen, Esq., a well-known and respected lawyer of the town, furnished
him board and lodgings, in return for which he took care of the garden,
and did the chores about the place. One of his schoolmates, describing
his first appearance at the academy, said: "The door opened, and there
quietly entered an insignificant, small boy, carrying in his arms a load
of books nearly as large as himself. But the impression of
insignificance vanished as soon as one regarded his large head, earnest
face, and firm, searching, and fearless dark hazel eye."
He remained at the academy over a year. As usual, he took the front
rank from the beginning. His reputation as a scholar, especially in
mathematics, extended beyond the school. Besides his studies he took
sole care of Mr. Hazen's garden, a half acre in extent, groomed the
horse, milked the cow, and fed them, cut and brought in the wood, and
did many other jobs about the house, performing an amount of labor, as
Mr. Hazen declared, sufficient to dismay many a hired man. He studied
early in the morning and late at night. His power of concentrating his
mind upon any subject was extraordinary. His industry was untiring. The
impress this boy of fifteen made upon those with whom he came in contact
during his stay at this place is really remarkable. Mr. Hazen, who
proved a considerate friend and adviser to the struggling youth, relates
that every evening Isaac would bring his chair close to the office
table, at which the former was accustomed to read or write, in order to
avail himself of the light, and would work out mathematical problems on
his slate. He would remain quietly with his hand to his head in deep
thought for a little time, when suddenly he would shower a perfect
rainstorm of figures upon his slate without hesitation, or erasure,
oftentimes completely filling it. Generally the correct result was
reached; but when the solution was not found the first time, he would
rapidly wipe off every figure and begin again as before. His mind always
sought out and mastered the bottom principle. It was remarked that,
whenever he had once solved a problem, he could unhesitatingly solve all
others of the same character.
On one occasion a mathematician of some note, who had just published a
new arithmetic, brought his work to the academy, and tested the
acquirements of the scholars by giving them his new problems to solve.
When Isaac was called to the blackboard, he astonished the author and
the teacher alike by the ease and rapidity with which he solved every
example. They plied him again and again with the most difficult
problems, but he mastered them in every instance. "Well, sir," exclaimed
the author, somewhat piqued, "I think you could make the key to this
book." Isaac took the book, and in three days returned it with every
example worked out.
A very difficult problem was sent from Yale College to the academy.
While the teachers and scholars were puzzling over it, Isaac sat in
thought for half an hour with his hand to his head, then rapidly worked
out the problem on his slate and presented the solution.
Young as he was, it seems that he had thought enough on religious
subjects to become a decided Universalist and Unitarian. A religious
revival took place while he was at the academy, and many of the scholars
were brought within its influence. Among others, one of the teachers
became "converted," and sought all means to promote a similar experience
among his pupils. In order to remove the stumbling-blocks of doubt and
ignorance, he offered to answer any questions they might propound on
religious topics. The first question Isaac put, "Can a sincere
Universalist be saved?" was met by a decided and uncompromising "No."
But the youth plied the unfortunate zealot with such queries that he was
forced to confess his inability to answer them, and to withdraw his
offer. Once, when he wanted the whole class to attend one of the revival
meetings, he put it to them that all who were willing to dispense with
the afternoon session and attend the meeting should rise. All promptly
stood up except Isaac, who resolutely kept his seat. "Every one in favor
except Stevens," exclaimed the teacher with some bitterness, realizing
the protest against his own bigotry. In truth, the youth's sense of
right had been shocked by the doctrines he heard advanced; he was
strongly opposed to such revival meetings, and his earnest nature would
not bend in a matter of principle.
At one of these meetings his two sisters, Hannah and Susan, yielded to
the exhortations and influences of the occasion, and took their seats on
the converts' or mourners' bench, as it was called. Perceiving this,
Isaac immediately marched up to the front, and made them both leave the
church with him, no slight proof of his influence over them, older than
himself. In fact, while they felt great pride in his talents, his
sisters had come still more to respect and lean upon his sound judgment
and firm will. He lavished upon them all the great tenderness and
affection of his strong and earnest nature.
During his boyhood he was affected with excessive diffidence, or
bashfulness. With characteristic resolution and good sense, he set
himself to overcome this weakness. He made it a point always to address
any one whose presence inspired this awkward feeling, but, he said, it
was years before he overcame it.
After a year and four months of this severe application, Isaac completed
his course at Phillips Academy. He wished to study law with Mr. Hazen,
but that gentleman discouraged the idea. At this juncture his uncle,
William Stevens, suggested West Point, and wrote to Mr. Gayton P.
Osgood, the member of Congress for the North Essex District, in which
Andover was situated, inquiring if there was an appointment in his gift,
and suggesting Isaac's name. Mr. Osgood replied that there was no
vacancy. But uncle William was not satisfied; he wrote to William C.
Phillips, the member representing the South Essex District, by whom he
was informed that no cadet had been appointed from Mr. Osgood's
district. Accordingly he formally made application in behalf of his
nephew. A lawyer by profession, and cashier of the Andover bank, he was
a man of some influence. Mr. Hazen and other friends joined their
recommendations. Mr. Phillips exerted a favorable influence, and
although there were other candidates with more influential backing, Mr.
Osgood bestowed upon Isaac the desired appointment. Both uncle William
and Mr. Hazen declared that the recommendations had little weight, and
that Mr. Osgood selected him on account of his reputation for ability
and scholarship.
CHAPTER III
WEST POINT
The following letter to his uncle William, written immediately after his
arrival at West Point, vividly portrays the mingled emotions that
stirred the heart of the raw but ambitious country youth on reaching the
goal of his boyish hopes,--his ardent patriotism, awakened by the
historic scenes about him; his ambition and determination to be first in
his class, "by unflinching resolution, indomitable perseverance, fixing
his whole soul upon the object he wishes to attain with concentrated and
undivided attention;" his gratitude to his uncle and friends for his
appointment, and his affectionate regard for his family. It is also
significant of his self-reliant character that he expresses no fears in
regard to the impending examination for admission, but remarks, with
well-grounded confidence, that "there can be no difficulty in sustaining
myself with honor and respectability."
WEST POINT, June 13, 1835.
DEAR UNCLE,--I now enjoy the long-anticipated happiness of
addressing you from West Point. And perhaps you may ask, does it
meet my expectations? I am not prepared to answer this question
fully at present, but will say that I like my situation, although
subject to very strict regulations, and fully believe there can be
no difficulty in obeying every regulation and sustaining myself with
honor and respectability. And be assured that I always shall
consider myself greatly indebted to you for your kind exertions in
my behalf, and it shall be my determination to demean myself in such
a manner as to convince you and all my friends that their exertions
have not been thrown away. Here I am surrounded by young men from
every State in the Union, who are eagerly endeavoring to arrive at
distinction, many of whom have determined, and, what is better
still, will make every exertion to carry their resolve into effect,
to be first in their class.
Every one must buckle on his armor for the conflict: let him be
girded with unflinching resolution, indomitable perseverance,
decision and firmness of mind, singleness of purpose, integrity of
heart, let him fix his _whole_ soul upon the object he wishes to
attain with concentrated and undivided attention, and he will
undoubtedly, with scarcely the possibility of a doubt,
|
we shall not
change. If that is the way human societies organize sovereignty, the
sooner we face that fact the better. For the object of democracy is not
to imitate the rhythm of the stars but to harness political power to the
nation's need. If corporations and governments have indeed gone on a joy
ride the business of reform is not to set up fences, Sherman Acts and
injunctions into which they can bump, but to take the wheel and to steer.
The corruption of which we hear so much is certainly not accounted for
when you have called it dishonesty. It is too widespread for any such
glib explanation. When you see how business controls politics, it
certainly is not very illuminating to call the successful business men of
a nation criminals. Yet I suppose that all of them violate the law. May
not this constant dodging or hurdling of statutes be a sign that there is
something the matter with the statutes? Is it not possible that graft is
the cracking and bursting of the receptacles in which we have tried to
constrain the business of this country? It seems possible that business
has had to control politics because its laws were so stupidly
obstructive. In the trust agitation this is especially plausible. For
there is every reason to believe that concentration is a world-wide
tendency, made possible at first by mechanical inventions, fostered by
the disastrous experiences of competition, and accepted by business men
through contagion and imitation. Certainly the trusts increase. Wherever
politics is rigid and hostile to that tendency, there is irritation and
struggle, but the agglomeration goes on. Hindered by political
conditions, the process becomes secretive and morbid. The trust is not
checked, but it is perverted. In 1910 the "American Banker" estimated
that there were 1,198 corporations with 8,110 subsidiaries liable to all
the penalties of the Sherman Act. Now this concentration must represent a
profound impetus in the business world--an impetus which certainly cannot
be obliterated, even if anyone were foolish enough to wish it. I venture
to suggest that much of what is called "corruption" is the odor of a
decaying political system done to death by an economic growth.
It is our desperate adherence to an old method that has produced the
confusion of political life. Because we have insisted upon looking at
government as a frame and governing as a routine, because in short we
have been static in our theories, politics has such an unreal relation to
actual conditions. Feckless--that is what our politics is. It is
literally eccentric: it has been centered mechanically instead of
vitally. We have, it seems, been seduced by a fictitious analogy: we have
hoped for machine regularity when we needed human initiative and
leadership, when life was crying that its inventive abilities should be
freed.
Roosevelt in his term did much to center government truly. For a time
natural leadership and nominal position coincided, and the administration
became in a measure a real sovereignty. The routine conception dwindled,
and the Roosevelt appointees went at issues as problems to be solved.
They may have been mistaken: Roosevelt may be uncritical in his
judgments. But the fact remains that the Roosevelt régime gave a new
prestige to the Presidency by effecting through it the greatest release
of political invention in a generation. Contrast it with the Taft
administration, and the quality is set in relief. Taft was the perfect
routineer trying to run government as automatically as possible. His
sincerity consisted in utter respect for form: he denied himself whatever
leadership he was capable of, and outwardly at least he tried to
"balance" the government. His greatest passions seem to be purely
administrative and legal. The people did not like it. They said it was
dead. They were right. They had grown accustomed to a humanly liberating
atmosphere in which formality was an instrument instead of an idol. They
had seen the Roosevelt influence adding to the resources of
life--irrigation, and waterways, conservation, the Panama Canal, the
"country life" movement. They knew these things were achieved through
initiative that burst through formal restrictions, and they applauded
wildly. It was only a taste, but it was a taste, a taste of what
government might be like.
The opposition was instructive. Apart from those who feared Roosevelt for
selfish reasons, his enemies were men who loved an orderly adherence to
traditional methods. They shivered in the emotional gale; they obstructed
and the gale became destructive. They felt that, along with obviously
good things, this sudden national fertility might breed a monster--that a
leadership like Roosevelt's might indeed prove dangerous, as giving birth
may lead to death.
What the methodically-minded do not see is that the sterility of a
routine is far more appalling. Not everyone may feel that to push out
into the untried, and take risks for big prizes, is worth while. Men will
tell you that government has no business to undertake an adventure, to
make experiments. They think that safety lies in repetition, that if you
do nothing, nothing will be done to you. It's a mistake due to poverty of
imagination and inability to learn from experience. Even the timidest
soul dare not "stand pat." The indictment against mere routine in
government is a staggering one.
For while statesmen are pottering along doing the same thing year in,
year out, putting up the tariff one year and down the next, passing
appropriation bills and recodifying laws, the real forces in the country
do not stand still. Vast changes, economic and psychological, take place,
and these changes demand new guidance. But the routineers are always
unprepared. It has become one of the grim trade jokes of innovators that
the one thing you can count upon is that the rulers will come to think
that they are the apex of human development. For a queer effect of
responsibility on men is that it makes them try to be as much like
machines as possible. Tammany itself becomes rigid when it is too
successful, and only defeat seems to give it new life. Success makes men
rigid and they tend to exalt stability over all the other virtues; tired
of the effort of willing they become fanatics about conservatism. But
conditions change whether statesmen wish them to or not; society must
have new institutions to fit new wants, and all that rigid conservatism
can do is to make the transitions difficult. Violent revolutions may be
charged up to the unreadiness of statesmen. It is because they will not
see, or cannot see, that feudalism is dead, that chattel slavery is
antiquated; it is because they have not the wisdom and the audacity to
anticipate these great social changes; it is because they insist upon
standing pat that we have French Revolutions and Civil Wars.
But statesmen who had decided that at last men were to be the masters of
their own history, instead of its victims, would face politics in a truly
revolutionary manner. It would give a new outlook to statesmanship,
turning it from the mere preservation of order, the administration of
political machinery and the guarding of ancient privilege to the
invention of new political forms, the prevision of social wants, and the
preparation for new economic growths.
Such a statesmanship would in the '80's have prepared for the trust
movement. There would have been nothing miraculous in such foresight.
Standard Oil was dominant by the beginning of the '80's, and
concentration had begun in sugar, steel and other basic industries. Here
was an economic tendency of revolutionary significance--the organization
of business in a way that was bound to change the outlook of a whole
nation. It had vast potentialities for good and evil--all it wanted was
harnessing and directing. But the new thing did not fit into the little
outlines and verbosities which served as a philosophy for our political
hacks. So they gaped at it and let it run wild, called it names, and
threw stones at it. And by that time the force was too big for them. An
alert statesmanship would have facilitated the process of concentration;
would have made provision for those who were cast aside; would have been
an ally of trust building, and by that very fact it would have had an
internal grip on the trust--it would have kept the trust's inner workings
public; it could have bent the trust to social uses.
This is not mere wisdom after the event. In the '80's there were hundreds
of thousands of people in the world who understood that the trust was a
natural economic growth. Karl Marx had proclaimed it some thirty years
before, and it was a widely circulated idea. Is it asking too much of a
statesman if we expect him to know political theory and to balance it
with the facts he sees? By the '90's surely, the egregious folly of a
Sherman Anti-Trust Law should have been evident to any man who pretended
to political leadership. Yet here it is the year 1912 and that monument
of economic ignorance and superstition is still worshiped with the lips
by two out of the three big national parties.
Another movement--like that of the trust--is gathering strength to-day.
It is the unification of wage-workers. We stand in relation to it as the
men of the '80's did to the trusts. It is the complement of that problem.
It also has vast potentialities for good and evil. It, too, demands
understanding and direction. It, too, will not be stopped by hard names
or injunctions.
What we loosely call "syndicalism" is a tendency that no statesman can
overlook to-day without earning the jeers of his children. This labor
movement has a destructive and constructive energy within it. On its
beneficent side it promises a new professional interest in work,
self-education, and the co-operative management of industry. But this
creative power is constantly choked off because the unions are compelled
to fight for their lives--the more opposition they meet the more you are
likely to see of sabotage, direct action, the grève perlée--the less
chance there is for the educative forces to show themselves. Then, the
more violent syndicalism proves itself to be, the more hysterically we
bait it in the usual vicious circle of ignorance.
But who amongst us is optimistic enough to hope that the men who sit in
the mighty positions are going to make a better show of themselves than
their predecessors did over the trust problem? It strains hope a little
too much. Those men in Washington, most of them lawyers, are so educated
that they are practically incapable of meeting a new condition. All their
training plus all their natural ossification of mind is hostile to
invention. You cannot endow even the best machine with initiative; the
jolliest steam-roller will not plant flowers.
The thought-processes in Washington are too lumbering for the needs of
this nation. Against that evil muckraking ought to be directed. Those
senators and representatives are largely irrelevant; they are not
concerned with realities. Their dishonesties are comparatively
insignificant. The scorn of the public should be turned upon the
emptiness of political thought, upon the fact that those men seem without
even a conception of the nation's needs. And while they maunder along
they stifle the forces of life which are trying to break through. It was
nothing but the insolence of the routineer that forced Gifford Pinchot
out of the Forest Service. Pinchot in respect to his subject was a fine
political inventor. But routine forced him out--into what?--into the moil
and toil of fighting for offices, and there he has cut a poor figure
indeed. You may say that he has had to spend his energy trying to find a
chance to use his power. What a wanton waste of talent is that for a
civilized nation! Wiley is another case of the creative mind harassed by
the routineers. Judge Lindsey is another--a fine, constructive children's
judge compelled to be a politician. And of our misuse of the Rockefellers
and Carnegies--the retrospect is appalling. Here was industrial genius
unquestionably beyond the ordinary. What did this nation do with it? It
found no public use for talent. It left that to operate in darkness--then
opinion rose in an empty fury, made an outlaw of one and a platitudinous
philanthropist of the other. It could lynch one as a moral monster, when
as a matter of fact his ideals were commonplace; it could proclaim one a
great benefactor when in truth he was a rather dull old gentleman. Abused
out of all reason or praised irrelevantly--the one thing this nation has
not been able to do with these men is to use their genius. It is this
life-sapping quality of our politics that should be fought--its wanton
waste of the initiatives we have--its stupid indifference.
We need a new sense of political values. These times require a different
order of thinking. We cannot expect to meet our problems with a few
inherited ideas, uncriticised assumptions, a foggy vocabulary, and a
machine philosophy. Our political thinking needs the infusion of
contemporary insights. The enormous vitality that is regenerating other
interests can be brought into the service of politics. Our primary care
must be to keep the habits of the mind flexible and adapted to the
movement of real life. The only way to control our destiny is to work
with it. In politics, at least, we stoop to conquer. There is no use, no
heroism, in butting against the inevitable, yet nothing is entirely
inevitable. There is always some choice, some opportunity for human
direction.
It is not easy. It is far easier to treat life as if it were dead, men as
if they were dolls. It is everlastingly difficult to keep the mind
flexible and alert. The rule of thumb is not here. To follow the pace of
living requires enormous vigilance and sympathy. No one can write
conclusively about it. Compared with this creative statesmanship, the
administering of a routine or the battle for a platitude is a very simple
affair. But genuine politics is not an inhuman task. Part of the
genuineness is its unpretentious humanity. I am not creating the figure
of an ideal statesman out of some inner fancy. That is just the deepest
error of our political thinking--to talk of politics without reference to
human beings. The creative men appear in public life in spite of the cold
blanket the politicians throw over them. Really statesmanlike things are
done, inventions are made. But this real achievement comes to us
confused, mixed with much that is contradictory. Political inventors are
to-day largely unconscious of their purpose, and, so, defenceless against
the distraction of their routineer enemies.
Lacking a philosophy they are defenceless against their own inner
tendency to sink into repetition. As a witty Frenchman remarked, many
geniuses become their own disciples. This is true when the attention is
slack, and effort has lost its direction. We have elaborate governmental
mechanisms--like the tariff, for example, which we go on making more
"scientific" year in, year out--having long since lost sight of their
human purpose. They may be defeating the very ends they were meant to
serve. We cling to constitutions out of "loyalty." We trudge in the
treadmill and call it love of our ancient institutions. We emulate the
mule, that greatest of all routineers.
CHAPTER II
THE TABOO
Our government has certainly not measured up to expectations. Even
chronic admirers of the "balance" and "symmetry" of the Constitution
admit either by word or deed that it did not foresee the whole history of
the American people. Poor bewildered statesmen, unused to any notion of
change, have seen the national life grow to a monstrous confusion and
sprout monstrous evils by the way. Men and women clamored for remedies,
vowed, shouted and insisted that their "official servants" do
something--something statesmanlike--to abate so much evident wrong. But
their representatives had very little more than a frock coat and a slogan
as equipment for the task. Trained to interpret a constitution instead of
life, these statesmen faced with historic helplessness the vociferations
of ministers, muckrakers, labor leaders, women's clubs, granges and
reformers' leagues. Out of a tumultuous medley appeared the common theme
of public opinion--that the leaders should lead, that the governors
should govern.
The trusts had appeared, labor was restless, vice seemed to be corrupting
the vitality of the nation. Statesmen had to do something. Their training
was legal and therefore utterly inadequate, but it was all they had. They
became panicky and reverted to an ancient superstition. They forbade the
existence of evil by law. They made it anathema. They pronounced it
damnable. They threatened to club it. They issued a legislative curse,
and called upon the district attorney to do the rest. They started out to
abolish human instincts, check economic tendencies and repress social
changes by laws prohibiting them. They turned to this sanctified
ignorance which is rampant in almost any nursery, which presides at
family councils, flourishes among "reformers"; which from time immemorial
has haunted legislatures and courts. Under the spell of it men try to
stop drunkenness by closing the saloons; when poolrooms shock them they
call a policeman; if Haywood becomes annoying, they procure an
injunction. They meet the evils of dance halls by barricading them; they
go forth to battle against vice by raiding brothels and fining
prostitutes. For trusts there is a Sherman Act. In spite of all
experience they cling desperately to these superstitions.
It is the method of the taboo, as naïve as barbarism, as ancient as human
failure.
There is a law against suicide. It is illegal for a man to kill himself.
What it means in practice, of course, is that there is punishment waiting
for a man who doesn't succeed in killing himself. We say to the man who
is tired of life that if he bungles we propose to make this world still
less attractive by clapping him into jail. I know an economist who has a
scheme for keeping down the population by refusing very poor people a
marriage license. He used to teach Sunday school and deplore promiscuity.
In the annual report of the president of a distilling company I once saw
the statement that business had increased in the "dry" states. In a
prohibition town where I lived you could drink all you wanted by
belonging to a "club" or winking at the druggist. And in another city
where Sunday closing was strictly enforced, a minister told me with
painful surprise that the Monday police blotter showed less drunks and
more wife-beaters.
We pass a law against race-track gambling and add to the profits from
faro. We raid the faro joints, and drive gambling into the home, where
poker and bridge whist are taught to children who follow their parents'
example. We deprive anarchists of free speech by the heavy hand of a
police magistrate, and furnish them with a practical instead of a
theoretical argument against government. We answer strikes with bayonets,
and make treason one of the rights of man.
Everybody knows that when you close the dance halls you fill the parks.
Men who in their youth took part in "crusades" against the Tenderloin now
admit in a crestfallen way that they succeeded merely in sprinkling the
Tenderloin through the whole city. Over twenty years ago we formulated a
sweeping taboo against trusts. Those same twenty years mark the
centralization of industry.
The routineer in a panic turns to the taboo. Whatever does not fit into
his rigid little scheme of things must have its head chopped off. Now
human nature and the changing social forces it generates are the very
material which fit least well into most little schemes of things. A man
cannot sleep in his cradle: whatever is useful must in the nature of life
become useless. We employ our instruments and abandon them. But nothing
so simply true as that prevails in politics. When a government routine
conflicts with the nation's purposes--the statesman actually makes a
virtue of his loyalty to the routine. His practice is to ignore human
character and pay no attention to social forces. The shallow presumption
is that undomesticated impulses can be obliterated; that world-wide
economic inventions can be stamped out by jailing millionaires--and
acting in the spirit of Mr. Chesterton's man Fipps "who went mad and ran
about the country with an axe, hacking branches off the trees whenever
there were not the same number on both sides." The routineer is, of
course, the first to decry every radical proposal as "against human
nature." But the stand-pat mind has forfeited all right to speak for
human nature. It has devoted the centuries to torturing men's instincts,
stamping on them, passing laws against them, lifting its eyebrows at the
thought of them--doing everything but trying to understand them. The same
people who with daily insistence say that innovators ignore facts are in
the absurd predicament of trying to still human wants with petty taboos.
Social systems like ours, which do not even feed and house men and women,
which deny pleasure, cramp play, ban adventure, propose celibacy and
grind out monotony, are a clear confession of sterility in statesmanship.
And politics, however pretentiously rhetorical about ideals, is
irrelevant if the only method it knows is to ostracize the desires it
cannot manage.
Suppose that statesmen transferred their reverence from the precedents
and mistakes of their ancestors to the human material which they have set
out to govern. Suppose they looked mankind in the face and asked
themselves what was the result of answering evil with a prohibition. Such
an exercise would, I fear, involve a considerable strain on what
reformers call their moral sensibilities. For human nature is a rather
shocking affair if you come to it with ordinary romantic optimism.
Certainly the human nature that figures in most political thinking is a
wraith that never was--not even in the souls of politicians. "Idealism"
creates an abstraction and then shudders at a reality which does not
answer to it. Now statesmen who have set out to deal with actual life
must deal with actual people. They cannot afford an inclusive pessimism
about mankind. Let them have the consistency and good sense to cease
bothering about men if men's desires seem intrinsically evil. Moral
judgment about the ultimate quality of character is dangerous to a
politician. He is too constantly tempted to call a policeman when he
disapproves.
We must study our failures. Gambling and drink, for example, produce much
misery. But what reformers have to learn is that men don't gamble just
for the sake of violating the law. They do so because something within
them is satisfied by betting or drinking. To erect a ban doesn't stop the
want. It merely prevents its satisfaction. And since this desire for
stimulants or taking a chance at a prize is older and far more deeply
rooted in the nature of men than love of the Prohibition Party or
reverence for laws made at Albany, people will contrive to drink and
gamble in spite of the acts of a legislature.
A man may take liquor for a variety of reasons: he may be thirsty; or
depressed; or unusually happy; he may want the companionship of a saloon,
or he may hope to forget a scolding wife. Perhaps he needs a "bracer" in
a weary hunt for a job. Perhaps he has a terrible craving for alcohol. He
does not take a drink so that he may become an habitual drunkard, or be
locked up in jail, or get into a brawl, or lose his job, or go insane.
These are what he might call the unfortunate by-products of his desire.
If once he could find something which would do for him what liquor does,
without hurting him as liquor does, there would be no problem of drink.
Bernard Shaw says he has found that substitute in going to church when
there's no service. Goethe wrote "The Sorrows of Werther" in order to get
rid of his own. Many an unhappy lover has found peace by expressing his
misery in sonnet form. The problem is to find something for the common
man who is not interested in contemporary churches and who can't write
sonnets.
When the socialists in Milwaukee began to experiment with municipal
dances they were greeted with indignant protests from the "anti-vice"
element and with amused contempt by the newspaper paragraphers. The
dances were discontinued, and so the belief in their failure is complete.
I think, though, that Mayor Seidel's defense would by itself make this
experiment memorable. He admitted freely the worst that can be said
against the ordinary dance hall. So far he was with the petty reformers.
Then he pointed out with considerable vehemence that dance halls were an
urgent social necessity. At that point he had transcended the mind of the
petty reformer completely. "We propose," said Seidel, "to go into
competition with the devil."
Nothing deeper has come from an American mayor in a long, long time. It
is the point that Jane Addams makes in the opening pages of that wisely
sweet book, "The Spirit of Youth and the City Streets." She calls
attention to the fact that the modern state has failed to provide for
pleasure. "This stupid experiment," she writes, "of organizing work and
failing to organize play has, of course, brought about a fine revenge.
The love of pleasure will not be denied, and when it has turned into all
sorts of malignant and vicious appetites, then we, the middle-aged, grow
quite distracted and resort to all sorts of restrictive measures."
For human nature seems to have wants that must be filled. If nobody else
supplies them, the devil will. The demand for pleasure, adventure,
romance has been left to the devil's catering for so long a time that
most people think he inspires the demand. He doesn't. Our neglect is the
devil's opportunity. What we should use, we let him abuse, and the
corruption of the best things, as Hume remarked, produces the worst.
Pleasure in our cities has become tied to lobster palaces, adventure to
exalted murderers, romance to silly, mooning novels. Like the flower girl
in Galsworthy's play, we have made a very considerable confusion of the
life of joy and the joy of life. The first impulse is to abolish all
lobster palaces, melodramas, yellow newspapers, and sentimentally erotic
novels. Why not abolish all the devil's works? the reformer wonders. The
answer is in history. It can't be done that way. It is impossible to
abolish either with a law or an axe the desires of men. It is dangerous,
explosively dangerous, to thwart them for any length of time. The
Puritans tried to choke the craving for pleasure in early New England.
They had no theaters, no dances, no festivals. They burned witches
instead.
We rail a good deal against Tammany Hall. Reform tickets make periodic
sallies against it, crying economy, efficiency, and a business
administration. And we all pretend to be enormously surprised when the
"ignorant foreign vote" prefers a corrupt political ring to a party of
well-dressed, grammatical, and high-minded gentlemen. Some of us are even
rather downcast about democracy because the Bowery doesn't take to heart
the admonitions of the Evening Post.
We forget completely the important wants supplied by Tammany Hall. We
forget that this is a lonely country for an immigrant and that the Statue
of Liberty doesn't shed her light with too much warmth. Possessing
nothing but a statistical, inhuman conception of government, the average
municipal reformer looks down contemptuously upon a man like Tim Sullivan
with his clambakes and his dances; his warm and friendly saloons, his
handshaking and funeral-going and baby-christening; his readiness to get
coal for the family, and a job for the husband. But a Tim Sullivan is
closer to the heart of statesmanship than five City Clubs full of people
who want low taxes and orderly bookkeeping. He does things which have to
be done. He humanizes a strange country; he is a friend at court; he
represents the legitimate kindliness of government, standing between the
poor and the impersonal, uninviting majesty of the law. Let no man wonder
that Lorimer's people do not prefer an efficiency expert, that a Tim
Sullivan has power, or that men are loyal to Hinky Dink. The cry raised
against these men by the average reformer is a piece of cold, unreal,
preposterous idealism compared to the solid warm facts of kindliness,
clothes, food and fun.
You cannot beat the bosses with the reformer's taboo. You will not get
far on the Bowery with the cost unit system and low taxes. And I don't
blame the Bowery. You can beat Tammany Hall permanently in one way--by
making the government of a city as human, as kindly, as jolly as Tammany
Hall. I am aware of the contract-grafts, the franchise-steals, the dirty
streets, the bribing and the blackmail, the vice-and-crime partnerships,
the Big Business alliances of Tammany Hall. And yet it seems to me that
Tammany has a better perception of human need, and comes nearer to being
what a government should be, than any scheme yet proposed by a group of
"uptown good government" enthusiasts. Tammany is not a satanic instrument
of deception, cleverly devised to thwart "the will of the people." It is
a crude and largely unconscious answer to certain immediate needs, and
without those needs its power would crumble. That is why I ventured in
the preceding chapter to describe it as a natural sovereignty which had
grown up behind a mechanical form of government. It is a poor weed
compared to what government might be. But it is a real government that
has power and serves a want, and not a frame imposed upon men from on
top.
The taboo--the merely negative law--is the emptiest of all the
impositions from on top. In its long record of failure, in the
comparative success of Tammany, those who are aiming at social changes
can see a profound lesson; the impulses, cravings and wants of men must
be employed. You can employ them well or ill, but you must employ them. A
group of reformers lounging at a club cannot, dare not, decide to close
up another man's club because it is called a saloon. Unless the reformer
can invent something which substitutes attractive virtues for attractive
vices, he will fail. He will fail because human nature abhors the vacuum
created by the taboo.
An incident in the international peace propaganda illuminates this point.
Not long ago a meeting in Carnegie Hall, New York, to forward peace among
nations broke up in great disorder. Thousands of people who hate the
waste and futility of war as much as any of the orators of that evening
were filled with an unholy glee. They chuckled with delight at the idea
of a riot in a peace meeting. Though it would have seemed perverse to the
ordinary pacificist, this sentiment sprang from a respectable source. It
had the same ground as the instinctive feeling of nine men in ten that
Roosevelt has more right to talk about peace than William Howard Taft.
James made it articulate in his essay on "The Moral Equivalent of War."
James was a great advocate of peace, but he understood Theodore Roosevelt
and he spoke for the military man when he wrote of war that: "Its
'horrors' are a cheap price to pay for rescue from the only alternative
supposed, of a world of clerks and teachers, of co-education and
zo-ophily, of 'consumers' leagues' and 'associated charities,' of
industrialism unlimited, and feminism unabashed. No scorn, no hardness,
no valor any more! Fie upon such a cattleyard of a planet!"
And he added: "So far as the central essence of this feeling goes, no
healthy minded person, it seems to me, can help to some degree partaking
of it. Militarism is the great preserver of our ideals of hardihood, and
human life with no use for hardihood would be contemptible. Without risks
or prizes for the darer, history would be insipid indeed; and there is a
type of military character which everyone feels that the race should
never cease to breed, for everyone is sensitive to its superiority."
So William James proposed not the abolition of war, but a moral
equivalent for it. He dreamed of "a conscription of the whole youthful
population to form for a certain number of years a part of the army
enlisted against _Nature_.... The military ideals of hardihood and
discipline would be wrought into the growing fibre of the people; no one
would remain blind, as the luxurious classes now are blind, to man's
relations to the globe he lives on, and to the permanently sour and hard
foundations of his higher life." Now we are not concerned here over the
question of this particular proposal. The telling point in my opinion is
this: that when a wise man, a student of human nature, and a reformer met
in the same person, the taboo was abandoned. James has given us a lasting
phrase when he speaks of the "moral equivalent" of evil. We can use it, I
believe, as a guide post to statesmanship. Rightly understood, the idea
behind the words contains all that is valuable in conservatism, and, for
the first time, gives a reputable meaning to that tortured epithet
"constructive."
"The military feelings," says James, "are too deeply grounded to abdicate
their place among our ideals until better substitutes are offered...
such a conscription, with the state of public opinion that would have
required it, and the many moral fruits it would bear, would preserve in
the midst of a pacific civilization the manly virtues which the military
party is so afraid of seeing disappear in peace.... So far, war has been
the only force that can discipline a whole community, and until an
equivalent discipline is organized I believe that war must have its way.
But I have no serious doubt that the ordinary prides and shames of social
man, once developed to a certain intensity, are capable of organizing
such a moral equivalent as I have sketched, or some other just as
effective for preserving manliness of type. It is but a question of time,
of skilful propagandism, and of opinion-making men seizing historic
opportunities. The martial type of character can be bred without war."
To find for evil its moral equivalent is to be conservative about values
and radical about forms, to turn to the establishment of positively good
things instead of trying simply to check bad ones, to emphasize the
additions to life, instead of the restrictions upon it, to substitute, if
you like, the love of heaven for the fear of hell. Such a program means
the dignified utilization of the whole nature of man. It will recognize
as the first test of all political systems and moral codes whether or not
they are "against human nature." It will insist that they be cut to fit
the whole man, not merely a part of him. For there are utopian proposals
made every day which cover about as much of a human being as a beautiful
hat does.
Instead of tabooing our impulses, we must redirect them. Instead of
trying to crush badness we must turn the power behind it to good account.
The assumption is that every lust is capable of some civilized
expression.
We say, in effect, that evil is a way by which desire expresses itself.
The older moralists, the taboo philosophers believed that the desires
themselves were inherently evil. To us they are the energies of the soul,
neither good nor bad in themselves. Like dynamite, they are capable of
all sorts of uses, and it is the business of civilization, through the
family and the school, religion, art, science, and all institutions, to
transmute these energies into fine values. Behind evil there is power,
and it is folly,--wasting and disappointing folly,--to ignore this power
because it has found an evil issue. All that is dynamic in human
character is in these rooted lusts. The great error of the taboo has been
just this: that it believed each desire had only one expression, that if
that expression was evil the desire itself was evil. We know a little
better to-day. We know that it is possible to harness desire to many
interests, that evil is one form of a desire, and not the nature of it.
This supplies us with a standard for judging reforms, and so makes clear
what "constructive" action really is. When it was discovered recently
that the boys' gang was not an unmitigated nuisance to be chased by a
policeman, but a force that could be made valuable to civilization
through the Boy Scouts, a really constructive reform was given to the
world. The effervescence of boys on the street, wasted and perverted
through neglect or persecution,
|
not appear to give sufficient importance
to those philosophical deductions and enunciations, which the authors
no doubt demand as an imperative right; for scientific physicists
are apt to be tyrannical, and are not over-endued with the virtue of
practicality, and naturally do not like their opinions and metaphysical
reveries relegated to that region which Milton humorously baptized
the “Paradise of Fools,” but prefer their speculations to be regarded
as irrefragable facts. As this is, however, the age for far-fetched
theories, I think we may be allowed with perfect fairness to discuss a
subject which has partially escaped the eyes of the inquisitive; and
if it is not treated so elegantly as the learned theses of the leaders
of science and philosophy of to-day, I cannot help thinking that we
may probably gain considerably more by studying a subject which is
practically of interest to all, than attempting to penetrate into the
invisible and undefinable mechanism of biology.
Notwithstanding the proofs (vague though they be), which I have
already mentioned to show that we are indebted to the Egyptians for
the discovery of this most valuable substance, I nevertheless do so
with diffidence, because they are of a hypothetical tendency, and
consequently refutable.[17] We may endeavour to trace the custom
of using salt as a condiment to several nations, or even to one
particular nation, with as much earnestness as the modern speculatists
attempt to account for unaccountable phenomena appertaining to the
material and spiritual worlds; but, as far as the real evidence goes,
we are as unsuccessful, and our inquiries almost as unsatisfactory, as
theirs have been hitherto.
There is great probability, however, that the Egyptians first made
known to other nations, directly and indirectly, the utility of salt,
and that through their sole agency it was introduced into Europe
through the media of commerce and other channels of communication, and
no doubt, as I have previously stated, in deference to their superior
wisdom. We learn from those scholars who are giving their attention
to Egyptian remains, that Greece was indebted to Egypt for all her
science, architecture, literature, art, and mythology; and, indeed, her
domestic life was derived from that venerable country. “From Egypt, it
now appears, were derived the prototypes of the Greek architectural
orders, and even their monuments and conventional designs; thence came
the models of the Greek and Etruscan vases; thence came many of the
ante-Homeric legends... thence came the first ritual for the dead,
litanies to the sun, and painted, or illuminated, missals; thence came
the dogma of a queen of heaven!”[18]
In confirmation of this we are told that Moses, as I have before
remarked, was skilled in Egyptian wisdom: this is most emphatic,
and we cannot but conclude that that wisdom was in a high state
of perfection; and their works, which are still the surprise and
admiration of travellers, testify to the truth of Holy Writ. Do not
their monuments, which have set time at defiance, prove that they were
a people highly gifted? Their ruins are more sublime than any other
architectural remains which are extant, excelling, both in magnificence
and magnitude, the classic temples of Greece, and the elegant buildings
which once graced the banks of the golden Tiber. In reference to this
I may quote Dr. Lepsius, who states that “all the principal cities of
Egypt were adorned with temples and palaces.... These temples were
filled with the statues of gods and kings, generally colossal, and hewn
from costly stones.”
Possibly, owing to the fact that salt is valued almost universally,
and is a substance which has been demonstrated by experience to be
necessary to humanity, it may have been, for all we can say, as well
known to the Antediluvians as it is to us; and if so, then we are
indebted to Noah. But these are but surmises; we really possess no
authentic record, except that which we find in Holy Writ: and, with
my reader’s leave, we will now proceed to examine those passages of
Scripture in which salt is mentioned.
We find that whenever salt is named, it is done so in language of a
character stamping it as a most important essential; and especially
do we notice this in the directions for the religious services of the
Israelites. They were commanded in the most explicit language that
in all their offerings they should “offer salt.”[19] There is also
another point which we must not omit, and that is, whenever salt is
referred to in the Inspired Volume, it is invariably in connection
with some important transaction: for example, when Elisha sweetened
the waters of the fountain of Jericho, he cast salt into them; this
act of the prophet illustrates, figuratively, the purifying properties
of salt, for he said, “I have healed these waters.”[20] When Abimelech
captured Shechem, he strewed salt over the ruins;[21] and when Abijah
harangued Jeroboam from the Mount Zemaraim, he speaks of a “covenant of
salt.”[22] We read farther on of this “covenant of salt” in the Book
of Numbers.[23] In fact, in the Old Testament, as well as in the New,
considerable stress is laid on this evidently important substance,
which shows that nothing was considered as thoroughly accomplished if
salt, in some way or other, was not intimately connected with it.
It was also a custom amongst the Hebrews, which was never departed
from, to rub new-born infants with salt:[24] this practice was in every
respect healthy and cleanly, and if we Christians were wise we should,
from a hygienic point of view, strictly follow a custom which is so
conducive to health; for salt hardens the skin of newly-born children
and renders it more firm, and prevents (unless there is an hereditary
taint) any irritation or local eruption of the skin.
The first mention of salt as a condiment is to be found in Job;[25]
and as this beautiful book, which delineates the vicissitudes to which
life is subjected, is supposed to have been written by Moses when he
was dwelling amongst the Midianites, there is no doubt but that it was
in general use not only in Egypt, but also amongst the surrounding
nations. The answer to the question propounded by the persecuted man of
Uz is the same now as it was three thousand years ago—there is nothing
savoury without salt, and to a certainty there is no real permanent
health without salt.
The Jews, like all Asiatic races, were much afflicted with various
forms of leprosy, and as salt is an indirect antidote to cutaneous
eruptions, they used it not so much as a condiment, but as a shield to
ward off and protect them from those repulsive diseases which rendered
those who were attacked obnoxious to their fellow-countrymen, by whom
they were treated as outcasts till they had recovered from their
loathsome maladies. To this day we find that by far the greater number
who suffer from cutaneous diseases hardly ever eat salt with their
food; this is an unquestionable fact, and truly significant of its
inestimable virtue as an anti-morbific agent.
The Great Master says (and who will dispute such an unanswerable
verity?) “salt is good;” and then He adds, “but if the salt has
lost its saltness, wherewith will ye season it?”[26] Addressing His
disciples, He says: “Ye are the salt of the earth,” and also, “Have
salt in yourselves.”[27] These sayings prove in the most unmistakable
language that salt is highly necessary. Our Saviour applies it in a
religious sense, it is true, but He was too much of a philosopher, too
great a logician, to use a metaphor of which the application could
be shaken and disproved in the abstract, if the image or figure were
fundamentally incorrect or inconsistent with the lesson which it was
intended to convey; besides, He never would have declared it “good” had
it been in the slightest degree provocative of anything deleterious to
the human race, neither would He have made use of a figurative mode of
speech if He could not have based it on a physical fact.
We are thus told in three simple words the value of salt, and none save
the shallow, or the sophist, would attempt to prove the contrary. All
must acknowledge the fact that salt is equally pleasant to the gourmand
and the temperate; and that animal and vegetable food is not palatable
without it. As it is pronounced to be “good” by the highest authority,
we must regard it as one of Heaven’s best gifts to man. It would be
a comparatively small matter were it but a condiment rendering food
more pleasant to the taste; but when we know that it is indirectly
a preserver of health, and that it also contravenes the attacks of
disease, its value will, I hope, be considerably increased.
I shall be more than satisfied if I am able to persuade those unwise
people who make it a rule never to use salt, to resort to it at once
without hesitation; for if they wish to be in a fair state of health,
to have clear wholesome skins and fresh complexions, to be free from
intestinal parasites and cutaneous diseases, to have their digestive
organs perform their functions compatible with health and personal
comfort, they must have, practically speaking, salt in themselves.
We have thus, from very scanty records concerning salt, essayed to
clear up, though very inconclusively, and I fear unsatisfactorily,
certain points which have been unnoticed, by reason, I think, of
the dense obtenebration with which the subject is surrounded; for
it has hitherto baffled the researches of the geologist to discover
its pristine source, and neither do we know who first used it as
a condiment. The chemist can experimentalise with this inorganic
substance to detect the presence of other bodies, and he knows its
worth in the laboratory; but as for its origin, he is as much in the
dark as the geologist.
CHAPTER III.
SALT AS A CHEMICAL, THERAPEUTICAL, AND TOXICOLOGICAL AGENT.
As a chemical agent, and from the manufacturing uses to which it is now
put, salt is a most invaluable article from a scientific as well as
from a commercial point of view. I will therefore draw the attention
of my reader to its chemical properties; I will then allude to a few
drugs which are partially derived from salt or the chloride of sodium;
and will cursorily notice one great staple of commerce which owes the
rapidity of manufacture to its sole agency, including some remarks on
it as a poison.
_Chlorine_ gas, which is obtained from the _chloride of sodium_, was
discovered by Scheele in 1777, who named it _dephlogisticated muriatic
acid_. Berthollet in 1785 termed it _oxygenated muriatic acid_. Sir
Humphry Davy called it _chlorine_ (from χλωρὸς, green) on account of
its colour, and it has kept this name ever since. We thus see that salt
is of great use to the chemist, for he not only obtains _chlorine_ gas
from it, but also _hydrochloric acid_, a most useful and efficacious
drug in the treatment of some hepatic diseases. _Chlorine_ also enters
into combination with other chemical substances known as _chlorides_
and _chlorates_, _sub-chlorides_ and _per-chlorides_; for instance, we
have the _chloride of ammonium_ and the _chlorate of potash_; we also
have the _sub-chloride of mercury_, or _calomel_, and the _perchloride
of mercury_, or _corrosive sublimate_, with various others.
According to Pereira, _hydrochloric acid_ was known to Djafar, or
Geber, an Arabian chemist who flourished in the eighth century, and
whom Roger Bacon calls _magister magistrorum_. Everyone is acquainted
with the _chloride of lime_, a substance so generally used for
household and disinfecting purposes, that I need only mention it;
besides this, there are other salts with which _chlorine_ enters into
combination.
Formerly, to bleach cotton it was required to expose the material to
the action of the sun and air, rendering the process long and tedious,
as it took on the average quite six or eight months, and likewise a
large surface of land was necessary for the operation.
Now, owing to _chlorine_ gas, the process is completed in a few hours,
and a comparatively small building is quite sufficient for the purpose;
the fibre is beautifully and permanently whitened, and the manufacturer
experiences the pleasing satisfaction of a more rapid remuneration.
Where would be our delicately white textile fibres were it not for the
abundant and inexhaustible supply of salt? How should we be enabled
to cause vegetable colours to vanish as if touched by the hand of a
magician were it not for the bleaching properties of _chlorine_? And
how should we be able to procure this green-coloured gas which produces
these changes were it not for the _chloride of sodium_?
As a therapeutical agent _chlorine_ possesses some characteristics
peculiar to itself: it is used as a lotion for cancerous growths and
foul ulcers, also for some cutaneous eruptions. It is likewise used
as a vapour-bath; it has also been used in the treatment of chronic
bronchitis and phthisis, and as a gargle in certain morbid conditions
of the mouth. When _chlorine_ is absorbed by the system it is supposed
to possess some antiseptic and alterative action, acting specifically
on the liver.
There is one more fact of a chemical nature in reference to chlorine
which it would be unwise to throw aside, as it possesses some degree of
interest. When the chemist wishes to decompose water, or in other words
to liberate hydrogen from oxygen, he has no better agent to effect
the purpose than this greenish-coloured gas, because it has such a
strong affinity for _hydrogen_, which is one of the most characteristic
properties of _chlorine_. Mix them together, and they combine with
explosive violence if they are exposed to the beams of the sun. By
this process we obtain _hydrochloric acid_ gas, while the _oxygen_ is
liberated.
_Chlorine_ only becomes active when it is associated with moisture;
when dry it is quite inert as regards its bleaching powers, for “when
moist it gradually decomposes the water, combining with its _hydrogen_,
and disengaging its _oxygen_; and it is this _oxygen_, at the moment of
its liberation, which is the really active agent in bleaching.”[28]
Salt, like other inorganic compounds, has been known to act as a poison
when taken in a large quantity, and Dr. Alfred Taylor, the eminent
toxicologist, mentions a case in which a table-spoonful was taken by
mistake for sugar; there was no vomiting or purging, but great pain in
the region of the stomach, with dryness of the fauces, which lasted
several days. Did not the above emanate from so great an authority,
one would feel inclined to question it. Could anyone take such a large
amount and swallow the same without being immediately aware of his
mistake? Surely he would have immediately and spasmodically ejected
it by reason of its extremely pungent character, before it had even
reached the fauces.
Dr. Taylor says that “in a toxicological view it is not easy to
distinguish the effects of common salt in these cases from the
poisonous action of salt of sorrel, or binoxalate of potash, which
it is well known may be taken with impunity in small quantity;” the
symptoms are those of irritant poisoning, causing great pain and
intensely inflaming the stomach and intestines, and in those few cases
which we have on record the vomiting was excessive.
In France, though not hitherto, as far as I am aware, in Great Britain,
several instances have occurred of severe sickness in particular
localities, which have been traced to the adulteration of common salt
with certain deleterious articles. In an investigation conducted by
M. Guibourt some years ago, in consequence of some severe accidents
which were presumed to have been produced apparently by salt in Paris
and at Meaux, oxide of arsenic was detected; and this discovery was
corroborated by MM. Latour and Lefrançois, who ascertained that
the proportion of arsenic was sometimes a quarter of a grain per
ounce. Another peculiar adulteration which was frequent was with the
hydriodate of soda. At a meeting of the Parisian Academy of Medicine,
held in December, 1829, an interesting report was read by MM. Boullay
and Delens, subsequent to the inquiry by M. Sérullas, into the nature
of a sample of salt which occasioned very extensive ravages. In the
year 1829 various epidemic illnesses in several parishes were supposed
to have originated from salt of bad quality, and in one month no less
than 150 people in two parishes were attacked, some with nausea and
pain in the stomach, slimy and bloody purging, some with tension of
the abdomen, puffiness of the face, inflammation of the eyes, and
œdema of the legs; and in some districts of the Marne one-sixth part
of the inhabitants were affected in a similar manner. The salt being
suspected, as it had an unusual odour somewhat like the effluvia of
marsh land, it was analysed by M. Sérullas, and after him by MM.
Boullay and Delens; the experiments of all three indicated the presence
of one hundredth of its weight of hydriodate of soda, besides a small
amount of free iodine. Owing to the discovery of arsenic by other
experts in different samples of suspected salt, M. Sérullas repeated
the analysis, but was unable to detect the slightest trace of that
poison.
“M. Barruel states that he observed the occasional adulteration of salt
with some hydriodate accidentally in 1824, while preparing experiments
for Professor Orfila’s lectures. He also found it in two samples from
different grocers’ shops in Paris. No satisfactory explanation has yet
been given of the source of the adulteration with arsenic; but the
presence of the hydriodate of soda has been traced to the fraudulent
use of impure salt from kelp.”[29]
It will be as well for us to know what pure salt really consists of, to
the composition of which I now draw the reader’s attention:
COMPOSITION OF THE PURE CHLORIDE OF SODIUM.
Atoms. Eq. wt. Per cent. Ure. Longchamps.
Sodium 1 23 39·3 39·98 39·767
Chlorine 1 35·5 60·7 60·02 60·233
— ———— —————— —————— ———————
2 58·5 100·0 100·00 100·000
MM. St. Claire Deville and Fouqué have shown that common salt can be
resolved into its elements by the action of hot steam alone, which
Lussa and other chemists had thought impossible.
Prof. Meyer, of Berne, has lately demonstrated by experiments on
chlorine gas, that the assumption of its elementary character is an
error, and that it is nothing more or less than the oxide of a metal
which he calls _murium_. This discovery opens up an interesting
question for physiological chemists to investigate; for if he is
correct, chlorine is not an element, but is simply the oxide of a
metal.
CHAPTER IV.
GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION.
Salt, fortunately for us, is a commodity remarkably easy to obtain;
almost everyone knows it is in great abundance in the ocean,[30] and
there are inexhaustible supplies of it in the earth; it is also present
in some rivers, and in no inconsiderable quantity. Mr. John Ashley, in
the _Quarterly Journal of the Chemical Society_, in his “Analysis of
Thames Water,” tells us the exact amount:
COMPOSITION OF THAMES WATER AT LONDON BRIDGE IN GRAINS PER GALLON
OF 70,000 GRAINS.
Carbonate of Lime 8·1165
Chloride of Calcium 6·9741
Chloride of Magnesium ·0798
Chloride of Sodium (salt) 2·3723
Sulphate of Soda 3·1052
Sulphate of Potash ·2695
Silica ·1239
Insoluble Organic Matter 4·6592
Soluble Organic Matter 2·3380
——————
28·0385
We may account for this great proportion of salts by the fact that
the Thames collects its water from the drainage of comparatively soft
and soluble rocks; we should also remember the vast amount of refuse
organic and inorganic matter which is being continually thrown into
this river; and we must also call to mind that it is nothing more
or less than the main sewer which receives the ordure of the modern
Babylon.[31]
We may naturally suppose that in those rivers which flow through
sparsely inhabited countries, where there is little or no traffic,
the amount of saline matter would be next to nothing, and probably
not a trace would be discovered. In a river like the Thames, owing
to the vast quantity of its shipping, the great percentage which Mr.
John Ashley has given us need not afford the least surprise. Sea-water
is deficient in its proper proportion of salt at the mouths of great
rivers, where the volume of fresh water displaces that which properly
belongs to the sea, and therefore a river does not obtain much saline
matter from that source.
Before we pass on to consider the geographical distribution of salt,
we will just cursorily glance at the position it occupies in the
vegetable world. It is present in all plants growing near the sea,
and in variable quantities in some of those which are in or near
districts where the soil is mixed with salt; though its place is taken
by potash when they grow inland. Dr. Balfour writes as follows: “Soda
and potash occur abundantly in plants. They are taken up with the soil
in combination with acids. Those growing near the sea have a large
proportion of soda in their composition, whilst those growing inland
contain potash. Various species of salsola, salicornia, halimœnenum,
and kochia yield soda for commercial purposes and are called halophites
(ἁλς, salt, and φυτὸν, plant). The young plants, according to Göbel,
furnish more soda than the old ones. There are certain species, as
Armeria maritima, Cochlearia officinalis, and Plantago maritima, which
are found both on the seashore and high on the mountains removed from
the sea. In the former situation they contain much soda and some
iodine; while in the latter, according to Dr. Dickie, potash prevails
and iodine disappears.”
Soda being present in those plants growing near the sea, and potash in
those which are inland, are two points well worthy of notice, and which
we will now discuss. The number of vegetables which are cultivated
near the coast shrink into insignificance when compared with those
which grow inland; and naturally the markets are supplied with inland
produce on account of a larger supply, therefore the consumption of
those vegetables containing potash is in the same ratio. This being
unquestionably the case, we ought, on that account alone, to use
salt freely with our vegetable food in order to supply that which is
absent, arising from the difference of locality and dissimilarity of
the atmosphere. I shall enter fully into the relation salt bears to
vegetable food while it is going through the process of digestion
further on, when we come to consider the effects which food salted
beforehand has upon the system when continued for any length of time,
with little or no variation, which dietary is supposed to be the sole
cause of the attacks of scurvy on board ship.
The sea is that grand reservoir which supplies the earth with its
fertility; and the air and sun are mighty engines which work without
intermission to raise the water from this inexhaustible cistern. The
clouds, as aqueducts, convey the genial stores along the atmosphere,
and distribute them in seasonable and regular proportions through all
the regions of the globe.
With what difficulty do we extract a drop of perfectly sweet water from
this vast pit of brine! Yet the sun draws off, every moment, millions
of tons in vaporous exhalations, which, being securely lodged in the
clouds, are sent abroad sweetened and refined, without the least
brackish tincture or bituminous sediment; sent abroad upon the wings of
the winds to distil in dews and rain, to ooze in fountains, to trickle
along in rivulets, to roll from the sides of mountains, to flow in
copious streams amid burning deserts and populous kingdoms, in order
to refresh and fertilise, to beautify and enrich, every soil in every
clime.
Though the ocean is salt, yet certain seas do not contain so much as
others; my reader must not therefore conclude that the chloride of
sodium, or salt, is equally diffused in sea-water, for the atmosphere
receives a larger or lesser amount by reason of evaporation. Dr. Draper
writes that the “temperature of the Mediterranean is twelve degrees
higher than that of the Atlantic, and since much of the water is
removed by evaporation, it is necessarily more saline than that ocean.”
It is said that the southern seas are slightly more salt than the
northern, the reason for which phenomenon has not been, as yet,
satisfactorily explained.
It is strange that salt should determine the colour of the sea, and
that for centuries the cause of this peculiar natural phenomenon of
the ocean should have been a closed secret even to men of science.
Even from the earliest times, the origin of this marine peculiarity
has attracted the attention and wonder of navigators; yet, strange to
say, it has only been discovered within the last few years. The many
expeditions which have been despatched by the Governments of England,
Germany, and others, for the express purpose of oceanic discovery, have
been the means of solving a question which has perplexed all races of
seamen from the time of the Phœnicians, and which astonished Columbus
on his voyage to the Indies.
These recent scientific investigations have proved that the proportion
of salt held in solution by sea-water determines its blue or green
appearance, and also its specific gravity; consequently, when the water
is blue, we may conclude that it holds a much greater proportion of
salt; when it is green, it is indicative that there is a decrease.
There is one phenomenon which is peculiarly interesting. There are two
kinds of ice floating in the Arctic and Antarctic seas—the flat ice and
the mountain ice. The one is formed of sea-water, the other of fresh.
The flat or driving ice is entirely composed of salt water, which, when
dissolved, is found to be salt, and is readily distinguished from the
mountain or fresh-water ice by its whiteness and want of transparency.
This ice is much more terrible to mariners than that which rises in
lumps. A ship generally can avoid the one, as it is seen at a distance;
but it frequently gets in amongst the other, which, sometimes closing
with resistless force, crushes the doomed vessel to pieces.
The surface of that which is congealed from the sea-water is not only
flat, but quite even, hard, and opaque, resembling white sugar, and
incapable of being slid upon.
Salt is found in variable quantities in different countries, and in
various conditions; in one part it may be found as a huge mountain, in
which there are dark and lofty caverns; in others it is deposited in
marshes and lakes, and in others in deep mines, many hundreds of feet
beneath the surface of the earth.
In some countries there are vast quantities of rock or fossil salt.
Salt has been divided into _three_ kinds: native or rock salt; common
or sea salt, also called white-salt; and bay-salt. Under the title
of bay-salt are ranked all kinds of common salt, extracted from
the water, wherever it is dissolved by means of the sun’s heat and
the operation of the air. If sea-water is evaporated by means of a
gentle heat we also obtain what is known as bay-salt. Common salt, or
sea-salt, or white-salt, which is extracted from the sea, is composed
of hydrochloric acid, saturated with soda, and is found in salt water
and salt-springs, also in coal and gypsum-beds. “The sea itself, if
desiccated, would afford a bed of salt five hundred feet thick, one
hundred for every mile.”
In England, and especially in Cheshire, there are large salt-mines,
at Nantwich and Middlewich, which have existed ever since the Roman
occupation of Britain; and in the year 1670 the Staffordshire
salt-mines were discovered, and accordingly excavated. Those in
Cheshire have been renowned for centuries; their great extent is such
that the surface has subsided on account of its being undermined for so
many miles.
“In England, the Trias is the chief repository of salt, or chloride
of sodium; and brine-springs, which are subterranean streams of water
impregnated with salt from percolating through saliferous strata,
are abundant in the great plain of the red marls and sandstones of
Cheshire. The salt, however, is not uniform in extent, but occupies
limited areas.” The saliferous strata of Northwich present the
following series:
1. Uppermost calcareous marl 15 feet
2. Red and blue clays 120 ”
3. Bed of rock-salt 75 ”
4. Clay, with veins of rock-salt 31 ”
5. Second bed of rock-salt 110 ”
Droitwich, in Worcestershire, which is situated nearly in the centre
of the county, has been celebrated for the production of salt from its
brine-springs from the time of the Romans, who imposed a tax on the
Britons, who, it appears, worked the mines; and also made salt a part
of the pay of their soldiers’ _salarium_, or salary.[32] Ever since,
this inexhaustible fountain of saline water has continued flowing up,
and yielding salt in undiminished quantities. It is very likely that
the manufacture is coëval with the town itself; but it was not till
the year 1725 that the strong brine for which it is now celebrated was
discovered. From one spring, even, the enormous amount of one thousand
tons of salt are obtained every week. At the depth of thirty or forty
feet is a bed of hard gypsum, about one hundred and fifty feet in
thickness; through this a small hole is bored to the stream of brine,
which is about twenty-two inches in depth, and beneath this is the
rock-salt. The brine rising quickly through the aperture is pumped into
a capacious reservoir, whence it is conveyed into iron boilers for
evaporation. It is supposed to be much stronger than any other in the
kingdom, containing above one-fourth part its weight of salt. “One of
the shafts is sunk to a depth of nearly five hundred feet, and passes
through four layers of salt, eighty-five feet in aggregate thickness.
Some of the beds of salt in Cheshire are from seventy to one hundred
and twenty feet in thickness;” and it is sometimes so hard that it
requires to be blasted with gunpowder.
In those districts where the marls of the Trias are covered by other
beds, and the salt-springs force their way through the superincumbent
deposits to the surface, these solutions of the chloride of sodium
undergo a chemical change, acquiring other properties, and are then
called mineral waters. The Cheltenham waters originate thus.[33]
Beneath the town of Cheltenham lie the Triassic deposits, the
reservoir of the rock-salt and brine-springs, which generate the
mineral waters, and from which they derive their saline ingredients.
In their passage to the surface they go through various modifications,
by reason of the superincumbent beds of Lias, which are impregnated
with iron pyrites and the sulphate of lime. From the analyses of
these waters, it appears that their principal constituents are the
chloride of sodium (muriate of soda), or sea-salt, and the sulphates of
soda and magnesia. Sulphate of lime, oxide of iron, and the chloride
of magnesium are present in some wells only, and in much smaller
quantities. Besides these ingredients, _iodine_ and _bromine_ have
been detected by Dr. Daubeny, who instituted experiments to ascertain
whether these two active principles, which the French chemists had
recently discovered in modern marine productions, did not exist in
mineral waters issuing from strata formed in the ancient seas. As the
saline springs of the red marls rise up through the Lias they undergo
certain chemical changes. From the decomposition of the sulphate of
iron which takes place, a vast quantity of sulphuric acid must be
generated, which, reacting on the different bases of magnesia, lime,
etc., contained in the strata, forms those sulphates so prevalent in
the higher or pyritous beds of the Lias; the oxide of iron being at the
same time more or less completely separated. By this means the mineral
waters, which are probably mere brine-springs at the greatest depths,
acquire additional medicinal qualities as they ascend to the places
whence they flow. At the same time, it must be borne in mind that fresh
water is continually falling from the atmosphere upon the surface of
the Lias clays, and percolating through the uppermost strata.[34]
The medicinal properties which are peculiar to these mineral waters
will be considered further on, when we come to discuss the action of
salt on the system, in health and disease, and the restorative results
which are due solely to its instrumentality.
The salt district is in the line which joins the Severn, the Dee, and
the Mersey, and doubtless once consisted of lakes flooded at every
tide, which, drying at certain seasons and at low tides, deposited beds
of salt, from Droitwich in Worcestershire, through Nantwich, to the
Mersey; brine-springs flowing over beds of salt, or rock-salt, being
found at different places on the entire line.
In the year 1863 a bed of rock-salt was discovered near the mouth of
the Tees, at Middlesborough, and also on the Durham side of the river.
The boring at Middlesborough showed that it was about 100 feet in
thickness. Of late, borings have been made near Port Clarence, on the
Durham side, but with what result I am not informed.
Scotland, as well as Ireland, is deficient in the more recent
formation; for salt, as well as chalk, does not occur. Both are
entirely absent; but geologists inform us that at one time chalk _did_
exist, judging from the presence of flints in considerable quantities
in Aberdeenshire, which they say affords unequivocal evidence of the
former presence of cretaceous strata now integrated; and they account
for it thus: the soft chalk being exposed to the action of the rain
and storms, has been gradually washed away, while the flints which
were embedded in it still remain. If this hypothesis is correct, that
at one time chalk existed and is now absent, we may by inference,
though we possess no evidence, presume that salt likewise, at some
period or other, was present in this part of the United Kingdom.
Chalk being entirely composed of the accumulation of marine shells
ground to impalpable powder, which has been gradually consolidated,
and being very rich in organic remains of shells, star-fish, sponges,
fishes, and lizards, must have been deposited by sea-water, as its
various ingredients indicate; therefore, during its deposition, salt,
if originating from sea-water, must of necessity have left some marks
character
|
if we begin
with the mystic year 476 A.D., we shall still have all Mahometan
history in front of us, and that the needs of our tale will drive us
to take not a few glimpses at that side of the world. From the very
beginning we have to do with powers which filled the same place in
the world which the Mahometan powers filled in after ages, the powers
against which our eldest brethren had to wage the earlier stages
of the strife which still is waging. With ingenious speculations
as to the earliest origin, the earliest settlements, the earliest
forms of speech, of the Hellenic folk, I am not, in such a summary
as this, called on to concern myself. I gladly leave them to my
ancient brother. I have to deal with the Greek when he appears on
the stage of the world as the first champion of the great cause and
as waging a strife against worthy rivals. One people alone in the
barbarian world have even the shadow of a right to be placed side
by side, to be dealt with as _ebenbürtig_, with the men of Hellas.
In the men of Canaan the men of Hellas had to acknowledge rivals
who were largely forerunners and in some sort masters. Greece had
ships, colonies, and commerce; but Phœnicia had ships, colonies, and
commerce in days earlier still. How high in all the material arts
the Phœnician stood above the earliest Greek we see in our earliest
picture of Hellenic life. Not to speak of lesser gifts, we all bear
in our minds that it was from the Phœnician that Hellas must first
have learned to carve the abiding records of man’s thought on the
stone, on the brazen or wooden tablet, on the leaves of Egypt and
on the skins of Pergamon. The political life of Greece was her own;
that assuredly was no borrowed gift from Tyre or Sidon; yet Tyre and
Sidon and that mightier Carthage whose institutions Aristotle studied
had a political life of their own which brought them nearer to the
Hellenic level than any other people beyond the Aryan fold. Only, if
we must admit that the men of Canaan were on some points the teachers
of the men of Hellas, yet it was the men of Hellas and not the men of
Canaan to whom destiny had given the call to be the teachers of the
world. It is a strange destiny by which the people who gave Greece
the art of writing should have left to us no writings to hand down
to us the thoughts and deeds of a world of their own that has passed
away. Strange destiny that, while so large a part of the acts of the
Phœnician are recorded by Greek and Roman enemies, while the tongue
of the Phœnician may be said still to live for us in the speech of
the kindred Hebrew, yet the direct memorials of so great a people
should not go beyond a few coins, a few inscriptions, a few ruins of
cities which once held their place among the mightiest of the earth.
Our scene then opens with the picture of the Greek while still
shut up in his own special land of islands and peninsulas. We ask
not for our purposes how and whence he came thither; we ask not
the exact measure of his kindred in blood and speech to the other
nations around him. It is enough for us that the Greek is not wholly
isolated, that he is not merely one of the great Aryan family, but
that he is the foremost among a group of nations who are bound to him
by some closer tie than that which binds together all the branches of
the great Aryan family. The exact degree of kindred between Greeks
and Thracians or Phrygians we may leave to other inquirers; it is
enough for us that there was the common Aryan kindred, and seemingly
something more. But it is one of the leading facts of history that
Greece had to deal on her immediate northern frontier, on the
opposite coasts of Asia, on the opposite coasts of Italy and Sicily,
with nations which, for historical purposes at least, were nearer
still. Those nations had, to say the least, a power of adopting
Greek ways, a power of becoming Greeks by adoption if not by birth.
The boundary line between the Greek and the Epeirot, faint in the
earliest days of Greece, seems for some ages to be drawn sharper and
sharper. Then the tide turns; suddenly the Epeirots, the people of
the oldest Hellas, the guardians of the oldest of Hellenic oracles,
stand forth again in their elder character. Molottian Pyrrhos wages
Western wars as a Hellenic champion and the kingdom of Pyrrhos
settles down at last into a well-ordered Greek confederation.
So it is in Macedonia; so it is in Sicily; so it is in the Greater
Hellas on Italian soil. All these lands, and other lands beside,
become, for a longer or shorter time, part of the immediate Greek
world, no less than Attica or Peloponnêsos. Greek colonization and
Macedonian conquest had, each in its turn, a share in the work, and
both were in many lands not a little helped by real, if unconscious,
kindred on the part of those whom colonists and conquerors found
already in possession. Every colony, every conquest, not only won
new lands for the Greek settlers themselves, but increased the Greek
nation in its wider sense by multitudes who became Greek by adoption,
and in whose case the work of adoption was made more easy by the
existence of earlier ties of which neither side had thought. As time
goes on, as we reach the days when Greek influences were most widely
spread over the Mediterranean lands, we may easily trace out zones
within zones, marking out the different stages by which the Greek
element grows fainter and fainter. First there is the centre of all,
the original Hellas itself. Then there are the genuine colonies
of old Hellas, detached fragments of Hellenic soil translated to
foreign coasts. Then there are the kindred lands whose people were
fully adopted into the Hellenic fold. Beyond them again lie the
kingdoms ruled by Macedonian princes, where a few great cities which
we must call Greek by the law of adoption are planted in lands which
have received at the outside only the faintest varnish of Hellenic
culture. Lastly, beyond these again, there are the barbarian lands
whose princes, like barbarian princes in our own day, made a show
of adopting Greek speech and Greek culture, but where the foreign
tastes of the princes had no real effect on their kingdoms, and which
we cannot look on as forming part of the Greek world in the laxest
sense. Such was Parthia; such was Pontos. Is it too much to add to
the barbarian kingdoms of the East the mighty commonwealth of the
West which had once been in Greek eyes no less barbarian? It is no
small part of our œcumenical story to mark how far Rome became Greek
and how far Rome refused to become Greek. The facts belong to a later
time; yet in some sort they form part of our present survey. The
Rome which brought the Greek lands step by step, first under Roman
influence, then under Roman dominion, was a Rome which had already
come within the magic circle of Hellenic teaching; while keeping the
essential essence of the national life untouched, while remaining
truly Roman in every political institution, in every detail of law
and government, she became Greek for every purpose of refined and
intellectual life. Nay, Rome became, like Macedonia, a disciple that
gathered in fresh disciples. Wherever Rome’s political life spread,
some measure, greater or less, of Greek intellectual life spread with
it.
The history of Europe before the Roman power is in truth the history
of the stages by which the Greek mind made its way to this general
supremacy over the civilized world, and in some sort beyond the
bounds of the civilized world. Within the range of this supremacy of
the Greek mind comes the narrower range of the political supremacy
of powers which were either Greek from the beginning or which had
become Greek by adoption. The supremacy of the Greek mind has never
ceased, and is still abiding. Greek intellectual dominion has formed
one side of the whole modern world; the advance of Greek political
power has wrought the lesser, but by no means unimportant, work of
forming one of the nations of the modern world. The modern Greek
nation, meaning thereby something more than the inhabitants either of
the existing Greek kingdom or of the continuous Hellas of old times,
is the fruit of old Greek colonization, followed up by Macedonian
conquest. I said years ago that Alexander was the founder of the
modern Greek nation, and I say so still. This saying may seem to shut
out the work of earlier Greek colonization, above all in those lands
of Sicily and southern Italy which we have spoken of as having been
admitted by adoption within the immediate Greek world. The truth
is that Greek colonization has nowhere been fully lasting, it has
nowhere left its abiding traces on the modern world, except where
Macedonian conquest came to strengthen it. This enables us to fix
a boundary for the lands which were permanently admitted within the
immediate Greek world. That boundary is the Hadriatic. West of the
Hadriatic Greek life has died out. The outlying Greek colonies in
Gaul and Spain, deep as was their influence on Gaul, had ceased to
be Greek before the great nations of modern Europe came into being.
Even southern Italy and Sicily, where Greek life was strengthened by
their long connexion with the Greek Rome on the Bosporos, have ceased
to be Greek for some ages. The lands in which a series of invaders
of whom Pyrrhos of Molottis was the last and greatest strove in vain
to set up a Western Greek dominion, have fallen away from the Greek
world. But the work which Alexander of Epeiros failed to do in the
West was largely done by his more famous nephew and namesake in the
East. If a great part of Alexander’s conquests were but for a short
time, another great part of them was abiding. The work of Alexander
and Seleukos fixed a line fluctuating between the Euphrates and the
Tigris, as a long abiding boundary of European dominion. It fixed
Tauros, the boundary of Alexander’s first Asiatic conquests, as a
far more abiding boundary of European life. I have had to point out
in two hemispheres, but I must point out again, how very nearly the
actual range of the modern Greek nation agrees with the range of old
Greek colonization east of Hadria. It has advanced at some points and
it has gone back at others; but its general extent is wonderfully
the same. It is an extent which in both ages has been fixed by
the genius of the people. Nowhere out of the old continuous Hellas
does the Greek people, none the less Greek because largely Greek by
adoption, spread from sea to sea. Throughout a large part of eastern
Europe and western Asia the Greek is the representative of European
and civilized life on the whole sea-coast. The world of peninsulas
and islands is the world of the Greek now, exactly as it was in the
days of the Homeric Catalogue.
It is, as we held in our former course, with that Catalogue, the
first written record of European politics, that our survey of Europe
before the Roman Power must open. With all who can take a general
grasp of history and who understand the nature of evidence, the
Domesday of the Empire of Mykênê, puzzling to the mere porer over
two or three arbitrarily chosen centuries, commands full belief. We
ruled it in our former inquiry to be the highest example of a general
rule, “Credo quia impossibile.” In the Catalogue we see the people
of many islands and of all Argos, grouped under the Bretwalda of
Hellas, already engaged in a stage, and not the earliest stage, of
the Eternal Question. Herodotus, who better knew the meaning of the
world’s history than the diplomatists of modern days, could point,
in a mythical shape indeed, to stages earlier still. Whether there
ever was a personal Agamemnôn and a personal Odysseus matters but
little; it matters far more that the keen eye of Ælfred, who knew
the relation of an overlord and his vassal princes, could see the
relation between Ulixes with his two kingdoms and the _Casere_
Agamemnôn of whom he held them. That _Casere_, kingliest among the
kingly, βασιλεύτερος in the throng of βασιλῆες, is already doing the
work of a Trajan or a Frederick; he is fighting for Europe on the
shores of Asia. The work of Greek colonization has begun; Crete, to
be won again ages after from the Saracen, is already won from the
Phœnician; Rhodes is already admitted to Hellenic fellowship, to
see in after days the might of Antigonos and the might of Mahomet
shattered beneath her walls. The southern coast of Asia is still
untouched; Milêtos is a barbarian city; but Achilleus has won Lesbos
as his own prize, and on the mainland the work is doing which was
to make the coasts of the Hellespont and the Propontis a foremost
outpost of Greece and Europe, the land which was to witness the first
exploits of the first crusaders and to behold the Eastern Rome rise
to a fresh life under the firm rule of the Emperors of Nikaia. Deem
we as we will as to minuter details, as we have in the Homeric poems
our first glimpse of Aryan society in peace and war, so we have in
them our first record, if only in a poetic form, of one stage of the
great strife which changed the barbarian peninsula of Asia into that
solid home of Grecian speech and Roman law which for ages held up
against the ceaseless inroads of the Arabian conquerors. To the west,
to the north, our range of sight is narrower. No colonist from Argos
and its islands has made his way to Italy or Sicily; Akarnania is
still part of the vague _Mainland_, the still undefined _Epeiros_;
Korkyra is still a land of fable on which no settler from Corinth
has set foot. But there are signs which already point to the kindred
of the nations on both sides of the Ionian sea. The Sikel dwells
on both coasts; even of the more mysterious Sikan we get a passing
glimpse. The northern coast of the Ægæan is known; but that coast
is not yet Hellenic; it significantly sends its warriors to fight
on the Asiatic side. Further to the north, further to the west, all
is wonder and mystery; we may as well ask whether the poet had any
conception of the site of London as whether he had any conception of
the site of Rome. The eyes of infant Greece are still fixed on the
East; vague tidings had reached her of the wonders of the land by the
river Ægypt; the men of Sidon were her visitors, her traffickers, in
some sort her teachers. But the wary sons of Canaan were too wise to
tell all they knew of Western lands and Western seas. The gold of
Tartêssos was as yet for them only; for them only was the precious
knowledge that the pillars of Hêraklês--if Greece had as yet heard
their name--opened into no stream of Ocean parting the lands of the
living and the dead, but into the boundless waters over which it was
as yet for themselves alone to spread their sails.
Let us take another glance at the Mediterranean world at a later
time, a time when our historic evidence is still meagre and
scattered, but when we have begun to leave mere legend behind us. It
is one of the gains or losses of the wider study of history that it
often teaches us to look at this and that period with different eyes
from those with which we naturally look at them when we are engaged
only in the narrower study of special times and places. I well
remember learning, and I well remember being startled as I learned,
from the teaching of Mr. Finlay, that the age which we commonly
look on as the most glorious in Grecian history, the fifth century
before Christ, was in truth an age of Greek decline. The truth is
that it was the greatest age in the history of Athens, and a crowd
of causes lead us at every moment to mistake the history of Athens
for the history of Greece. What we sometimes fail to see Herodotus
saw clearly. He saw that in the general history of the world the
age of the Persian wars was, for the Greek people as a whole, the
scattered Greek people all over the world, an age of decline. The
fact that there was a Persian war, a Persian war waged in Greece,
is enough to prove the saying. That fact of itself shows that that
process had already begun which is still not ended, the long and
gloomy work of which Finlay steeled himself to write the story, the
History of Greece under Foreign Domination. It is enough to prove
Finlay’s point that Milêtos had learned to groan, as thrice-betrayed
Jôannina groans still, beneath the yoke of the barbarian. The periods
when Greek influences had most sway over the whole world are two,
one earlier, one later, than the more brilliant times of our usual
studies. The earlier is the greater; for it is the time when Hellas
grew and spread and made wide her borders among the nations, by her
own unaided strength, the time when Hellenic colonization carried
everywhere, not only Hellenic speech and Hellenic arts, but the
higher boon of free Hellenic political life. In the later period
Hellenic speech and Hellenic arts are spread more widely than they
had ever been spread before; but Hellenic political life is no longer
carried with them. The external might of Greece is wielded for her
by the kings of the adopted lands; we have passed from Hellenic
colonization to Macedonian conquest. In neither of those periods was
the most vigorous Greek life to be found in old Greece itself; the
most brilliant recorded period of old Greece is the period between
the two, the period of our most usual Greek studies. But it was the
most brilliant because the outer bounds of Hellas had fallen back
before victorious barbarians, and because old Greece rose up in a
renewed strength to avenge the wrongs of her colonies and to ward
off the like bondage from herself. The Greece of the fifth century
before Christ is like the Rome of the fourth century after Christ.
Its warfare is essentially defensive; it seldom gains new ground;
it has much ado to defend old ground. It gains victories; it wins
territories; but the victories are gained over threatening invaders,
the territories that are won are won back from the grasp of those
invaders. The work of Kimôn, the work of Agêsilaos, answers rather
to the work of Galerius and Valentinian than to the work of those
conquerors of realms wholly new who made Sicily a Greek and Gaul a
Roman land.
It is hard to fix on the exact moment when free and independent
Hellas--for remember that wherever Hellênes dwell there is
Hellas--had spread itself most widely over the Mediterranean coasts.
For boundaries fluctuate, and Hellas still advanced at some points
after she had begun to fall back at others. But we cannot be far
wrong in picking out some time not far from the beginning of the
sixth century before Christ as the most brilliant time of the free
Hellênes throughout the world. Then, as Herodotus puts it, all
Greeks were still free; it was in the course of the next century
that some Greeks were brought under the power of barbarian masters.
If some Greek colonies were still to be planted, all the fields of
Greek colonization had already been opened. And in most of them
the Greek cities were at the height of their power and greatness,
positive and relative; they were greater than they were in after
days, greater than the cities of old Greece were at the same time.
It is one of the truths which it is hardest to take in, that there
was a time when Milêtos and Sybaris and Akragas, rather than Athens
or Sparta, were the greatest cities of the Hellenic name. The like
came again at a later time, when the greatest of Greek cities were
Alexandria and Antioch. That the life of Athens and Sparta was the
more abiding proves that the Greek was after all more at home on
the soil on which he grew to be a Greek; but the fact that, at one
time the colonial, at another the Macedonian, cities altogether
outshone the older and truer Hellas is a fact which should be ever
borne in mind. In the great days of the Greek colonies the greater
part of the Mediterranean coasts was divided between settlers from
Greece and settlers from Phœnicia. In the eastern seas the Greek
had the supremacy; the true life and strength of the men of Canaan
had passed away from Sidon and Tyre to the Phœnician cities in the
western Mediterranean, to Panormos in the great central island, to
Gadeira on the Ocean, to Utica on the Libyan coast, to the New City
which outshone her parents and elder sisters, to mighty Carthage,
chief and in course of time mistress of her fellows. From the
Ægæan islands the Phœnician had withdrawn before the Greek; even
in more distant Cyprus the Greek had gained the upper hand. Far to
the south, on the Libyan mainland, the fertile coast between the
Egyptian and the Carthaginian had beheld the growth of Kyrênê and
her sisters of the Greek Pentapolis. The Greek cities of Asia were
among the most flourishing in the world; the gates of the Bosporos
had been thrown open; the Pontos was no longer the Inhospitable but
the Hospitable Sea; if the most abiding seat of Hellenic freedom,
Cherson on her Tauric peninsula, had not already sprung into being,
the path had at least been opened for her. On the western side of her
own peninsula, Greece was creeping up the Hadriatic coast; setting
aside later settlements, setting aside doubtful tales of earlier
settlements, Akarnania was now part of the Greek mainland, Korkyra
was numbered among Greek islands, Ambrakia, perhaps Epidamnos and
Apollônia, had begun their course; Greek culture was spreading among
the kindred nations; if narrower Hellenic feeling forbade to the
Thesprotian and the Molottian any share in the Hellenic name, wider
and more liberal inquirers did not deny their right. But, above all,
this is the age of the greatness of the Greek folk in the lands
west of Hadria, that greatness which so soon dwindled away, and
which adventurous kings from Sparta and Epeiros strove in vain to
restore. The Phœnician, whose settlements once studded the eastern
and southern coasts of Sicily, is now driven into the north-western
corner of the island; the Sicilian cities are among the foremost of
the Greek name; if Syracuse is less great than she was in days to
come, it is because Akragas and Gela have not yet fallen from their
first greatness. In southern Italy, alone in lands out of the old
home, in a peninsular land recalling the old home, Hellas spreads
from sea to sea; the Greater Greece holds the land firmly with her
great cities; Sybaris has reached the greatness from which she is
soon to fall into utter nothingness; Taras, not yet Latin Tarentum,
has begun the long life some traces of which hang about her even in
our own day. As for the Greek cities in the Western Mediterranean,
Massalia and her fellows, their full day of greatness, their day
of widest influence over barbarian neighbours, had as yet hardly
come. But it was coming; the work was begun. In that day Hellenic
life is fully as vigorous and flourishing in the Western as in the
Eastern lands. Continuous Hellas lies between the two, for a moment
less brilliant, of less influence in the world, than the two great
ranges of Greek colonization on either side of it. But when the whole
Mediterranean coast might seem to be divided between the Greek and
the Phœnician, two lands stand marked as having supplied no home for
the settlements of either. There was the land whose day of greatness
had gone by, and the land whose day of greatness was coming. By the
banks of the Nile the site of Alexandria still stood unnoticed by
all the wisdom of a thousand Pharaohs; the Greek was already known
in Egypt as a mercenary; he had not yet come to reign as a Preserver
and a Benefactor. By the banks of the Tiber, Rome, perhaps already
the head of Latium, not yet aspiring to be the head of the world or
the head of Italy, was biding her time; not yet herself conquering or
colonizing, but strong enough, along with her valiant neighbours, to
keep central Italy as an Italian land, in which neither the men of
Hellas nor the men of Canaan should find a dwelling-place.
This then, from the point of view of œcumenical history, is the
time which saw the full height of strictly Hellenic greatness, the
greatness of Hellenic commonwealths, the greatness of states which
were Greek by birth and not only Greek by adoption. Let us pass on to
the next strongly marked period, the days, stretching not very much
beyond a century and a half, which are undoubtedly the most brilliant
days in the life of some of the greatest cities of the elder Hellas,
and which have therefore often been mistaken for the whole history
of the Greek people. Now, as Herodotus says, we can no longer say
that all Greeks are free. In the course of the sixth century B.C.
the work of Mummius and Mahomet begins; Greeks now begin to be the
subjects of foreign rulers. Barbarian powers such as Greeks had never
yet had to deal with have arisen in East and West. Two such powers
above all have come to the front, a mighty empire in the East, a
mighty commonwealth in the West, an empire and a commonwealth which
for some generations were to be names of fear throughout the Hellenic
world. On the one side the old barbarian powers of Asia, powers
which lay beyond the range of European history, have given way to a
new barbarian power which forced itself within the European range,
and which we may almost say had a right to force itself. It was not
against the Hittite or the Assyrian that the strife had to be waged,
but against the kindred Persian. An Aryan people had been misled in
their course of wandering; they had strayed into the land of morning;
they now turned their faces towards the setting sun, but they turned
them only when it was too late, when they had already put on the
guise of the lands of their sojourn and could show themselves among
their European kinsfolk in no light but that of barbarian invaders.
Yet we must pay our tribute to the long abiding national life and
national energy which could so often rise again in full freshness
after ages of bondage. It was no mean people which could twice
spring into fresh being at the preaching of a national religion. It
was in truth no small mission in the world’s history that fell to
the lot of the Aryan of Persia. Once the worthy rival of Greece, he
rose again to be the worthy rival of Rome; like the Greek, he could
lead captive successive conquerors; in the grasp of the Saracen, in
the grasp of the Turk, his old life could still abide, and, if he
bowed to the creed of Arabia, it was only by changing it into a new
shape which made it before all things the creed of Persia. The Lydian
reaped the first-fruits of Greek subjection; the Persian threatened
to turn the whole eastern half of Hellas, continuous and scattered,
into part of a world-wide dominion. The King--βασιλεύς--forestalling
in that simple word the titles and controversies of days to come, was
indeed beaten back from old Hellas; he was beaten back from Europe;
he was for a while forced to withdraw his fleets and armies from
the Hellenic coasts of Asia. But the fact that he had to be driven
back from all of them of itself showed what an enemy it was against
whom Greece had now to strive. For a moment Thebes was the willing
ally, Athens was the defenceless conquest, of the lord of Susa and
Ekbatana. And after all the Persian did cut Hellas short on the side
of Asia; he even declared his will as a master in the councils of
Europe. A century had not passed since the day of Salamis when, by
the peace of Antalkidas, the peace which the King sent down, the
Greek cities of Asia, the Greek cities of Cyprus, were formally
acknowledged to be the King’s.
In the West meanwhile Hellas had to strive against a rival yet more
worthy of her rivalry, not against a barbarian empire, but against
a barbarian commonwealth. The old Phœnicia on the Syrian shore had
fallen from its glory; its commonwealths, still rich and flourishing,
had sunk into dependencies of the Persian power. The great field of
Phœnician enterprise now lay in the western seas. One Phœnician city,
the youngest of the great Phœnician cities, had risen to a place in
the world and the world’s history such as the cities of the elder
Canaan had never reached. The New City, Carthage, was now the centre
and representative of Phœnician life far more than Sidon or Tyre.
Carthage, in after days the rival of Rome, was now before all things
the rival of Greece. She was to bring Rome nearer to destruction
than was ever done by any other power of the Mediterranean world;
she was to destroy for a season, to weaken for ever, more than one
of the greatest among the western cities of Hellas. At the head
of a mighty following of dependencies of her own race, swollen by
barbarian subjects and mercenaries of every race, the Asiatic city
planted on the shores of Africa came nearer than any other power of
those days to rooting up the elder life of Europe, the life of which
first Greece and then Italy was the centre. We do not rightly take
in the full significance of the struggle which Greece went through
at the beginning of the fifth century B.C. if we do not at every
moment bear in mind how the whole Greek folk was attacked on both
sides at once. It may or may not be true that Xerxes entered into
an actual league with Carthage; it may or may not be true that the
fight of Salamis and the fight of Himera were fought on the same
day. True or false, both beliefs set forth the true position of the
Greek states at that moment, threatened by Persia on one side and
by Carthage on the other. The Persian was beaten back; from the
actual soil of continuous Hellas he was beaten back for ever. The
Carthaginian was beaten back only for a moment; he still kept his
hold on Sicily; he was yet to destroy Selinous and Akragas, to come
within a hair’s-breadth of destroying Syracuse. In earlier days the
scattered Phœnician settlements in eastern Sicily had withdrawn
before the coming of the Greek colonists; but now the Phœnician power
was wielded by a single mighty commonwealth which held some of its
strongest outposts, Panormos at their head, in the north-western
corner of the great island. In Sicily things seem to have turned
round; the European holds the eastern, the Asiatic holds the western
coast. And it is now the masters of the western coast that threaten
the eastern.
But the Persian and the Phœnician were not the only enemies against
whom the scattered Greek nation had to strive. Foes nearer to the
Greek in race than the Phœnician, less widely removed in political
and social institutions than the Persian, were threatening the power
and the being of one great division of the Greek name. The second
of the great peninsulas of southern Europe, the central one of the
three, the peninsula which held Rome and Capua and the cities of the
Etruscan, was beginning to come to the front in the drama of history.
There was as yet no sign that Italy was to be the ruling land of the
world; but there were signs that Italy was no longer to be a land
in which settlers of foreign races might carve themselves homes at
pleasure. The name of Rome was beginning to be heard in Hellenic
ears, but it was as yet hardly a name of fear. It was as yet the
native races of southern Italy that the Greek cities had to dread,
and Rome was for a while the enemy of their enemies. The Persian and
the Carthaginian were strictly enemies from without; the Persian
was in every sense an invader of the soil of the oldest Hellas; the
Carthaginian was at most winning a land in which other branches of
his race had once made settlements; but the Lucanians and the other
nations of southern Italy were, in the strictest sense, winning back
their own land from strangers. When Kymê and Poseidônia ceased to be
cities of Hellas, in one sense the boundaries of the civilized world
fell back; in another we may say that they advanced, as the nations
of Italy began to show that the time was come for the men of the
central peninsula to play their part in the world’s history as well
as the men of the older peninsula to the east of them.
By the middle of the fourth century B.C. the decline of Greece
is, even on the shallowest view, allowed to have begun. But it is
commonly held to have begun merely because the Macedonian kingdom
was beginning to step into that position of primacy among the Greek
powers which had been held at different times by the cities of Argos,
Sparta, Athens, and Thebes. And as regards the political life of
the great Greek cities, above all, as regards the political life of
that Athens which we are so often tempted to mistake for Greece, the
change was great indeed, sad indeed. But we must not forget that the
political decline of the great cities of old Greece was but one part
of the general political decline of the Hellenic people, and also
that a large part of old Greece itself looked on the change in quite
another light from that in which we are used to look at it from the
purely Athenian point of view. With the voice of Dêmosthenês ringing
in our ears, it is hard to listen to the calm comments of Polybios,
when he hands on to us the traditions of Megalopolis and of so many
other cities by whom Philip was looked on as a friend and deliverer,
a pious crusader against the sacrilegious Phokian. But yet more
important it is to remember that, if old Hellas lost much through
the advance of the Macedonian, the younger Hellas beyond Hadria lost
immeasureably more through the advance of the Phœnician and the
native Italian. Cry after cry for help went up from Italy and Sicily
to the motherland in Greece. A series of adventurers, republican and
princely, crossed the sea to bear help to their threatened brethren
or to carve out a dominion for themselves. Some went to free Greek
cities from domestic tyrants, others to free them from the yoke of
the advancing barbarian. That men from the motherland were needed for
either work shows that the great day of the Western Greeks had passed
away, that they could no longer keep either internal freedom or
external independence by their own strength. And, dark as is the tale
of Dionysios and Agathoklês, we cannot wholly put out of sight that
even they had a brighter side as in some sort champions of Hellas
against the barbarian. We must not forget Dionysios as the planter of
Greek colonies on both sides of Hadria, nor Agathoklês as the man who
carried the arms of Europe to the shores of Africa, the forerunner of
Regulus and Scipio, of Roger of Sicily and Charles of Austria. But
the mission of Diôn and of the nobler Timoleôn, the warfare of the
Spartan and the Epeirot, of Archidamos
|
market at a stated period in large quantities,
though in quantities which experience showed were rarely sufficient to
meet the requirements of the succeeding twelve months. The capitalist
who could pay cash for it, and who had the means of storing it, was
therefore nearly certain of a moderate profit, and, if famine occurred,
of an extravagant one. That capitalist of necessity belonged to the
privileged classes. Frequently religious communities embarked in these
ventures, and used their commodious buildings as granaries. Syndicates
were formed in which all varieties of speculators entered, from the
bourgeois shopkeeper of the provincial town to the courtier and even
the King. But popular resentment, the bitter cry of the starving,
applied the same name to all of them: from Louis XV to the
inconspicuous monk they were all _accapareurs de blé_, cornerers of
wheat. And their profits rose as did hunger and starvation. The
computation has been put forward that in the year 1789 one-half of the
population of France had known from experience the meaning of the {28}
word hunger; can it be wondered if the curse of a whole people was
attached to any man of whom it might be said that he was an _accapareur
de blé_?
The privileged person, king or seigneur, bishop or abbot, levied feudal
dues along the roads and waterways, so that a boatload of wine
proceeding from Provence to Paris was made to pay toll no less than
forty times en route. He owned the right of sitting as judge in town
or village, and of commanding the armed force that made judgment
effective. Where he did not own the freehold of the farm, he held
oppressive feudal rights over it, and in the last resort reappeared in
official guise as one of an army of officials whose chief duty it was
not so much to ensure justice, good government, or local improvement,
as to screw more money out of the taxpayer. Chief of all these
officials were the King's intendants, working under the authority of
the Controleur-Genéral des Finances.
The Controleur was the most important of the King's ministers, and had
charge of nearly all the internal administration of the kingdom. He
not only collected the revenue, but had gradually subordinated every
other function of government to that one. So he took charge {29} of
public works, of commerce and of agriculture, and directed the
operations of an army of police, judicial and military officials--and
all for the more splendid maintenance of Versailles, Trianon, and the
courtiers.
In the provinces he was represented by the intendant. This official's
duties varied to a certain extent with his district or _généralité_.
In administration France showed the transition that was proceeding from
feudalism to centralized monarchism. Provinces had been acquired one
by one, and many of them still retained local privileges. Of these the
chief was that of holding provincial Estates, and where this custom
prevailed, the chief duty of the Estates lay in the assessment of
taxes. Where the province was not _pays d'état_, it was the intendant
who distributed the taxation. He enforced its collection; directed the
_maréchaussée_, or local police; sat in judgment when disorder broke
out; levied the militia, and enforced roadmaking by the _corvée_.
Thirty intendants ruled France; and the modern system with its prefects
is merely a slight modification devised by Napoleon on the great
centralizing and administrative scheme of the Bourbon monarchy.
The taxes formed a somewhat complicated {30} system, but they may, for
the present purpose, be grouped as follows: taxes that were farmed;
direct taxes; the gabelle; feudal and ecclesiastical taxes.
In 1697 had begun the practice of leasing indirect taxes for the space
of six years to contractors, the _fermiers généraux_. They paid in
advance, and recouped themselves by grinding the taxpayer to the
uttermost. They defrauded the public in such monopolies as that of
tobacco, which was grossly adulterated; and they enforced payments not
only with harshness and violence, but with complete disregard for the
ruin which their exactions entailed. The government increased the
yield of the _ferme_ in a little less than a century from 37 to 180
millions of livres or francs,[1] and yet the sixty farmers continued to
increase in wealth. They formed the most conspicuous group of
plutocrats when the Revolution broke out and were among the first
victims of popular indignation. Of the direct taxes the most important
in every way was the _taille_. It brought in under Louis XVI about 90
millions of francs. It represented historically the fundamental right
of the French monarch to tax his {31} subjects delegated to him by the
Estates of the kingdom in the 15th century. By virtue of that
delegated power it was the Royal Council that settled each year what
amount of _taille_ should be levied. It was enforced harshly and in
such a manner as to discourage land improvement. It was also the badge
of social inferiority, for in the course of centuries a large part of
the wealthier middle classes had bought or bargained themselves out of
the tax, so that to pay it was a certain mark of the lower class or
_roture_. _Taillable, roturier_, were terms of social ostracism
impatiently borne by thousands.
Other direct taxes were the capitation, bringing in over 50 millions,
the _dixiéme_, the _don gratuit_. But more important than any of these
was the great Government indirect tax, the monopoly on salt, or
_gabelle_. Exemptions of all sorts made the price vary in different
parts of France, but in some cases as much as 60 francs was charged for
the annual quantity which the individual was assessed at, that same
individual as often as not earning less than 5 francs a week. So much
smuggling, fraud and resistance to the law did the _gabelle_ produce
that it took 50,000 officials, police and soldiers, to work it. In the
year 1783 no less {32} than 11,000 persons, many of them women and
children, were arrested for infraction of the _gabelle_ laws.
Last of all, the tithe and feudal dues were added to the burden. The
priest was maintained by the land. The seigneur's rights were
numerous, and varied in different parts of the country. They bore most
heavily in the central and northeastern parts of France, most lightly
in the south, where Roman law had prevailed over feudal, and along most
of the Atlantic coast line, as in Normandy. These feudal dues will be
noticed later in connection with the famous session of the
States-General on the 4th of August, 1789.
In all this system of taxation there was only one rule that was of
universal application, and that was that the burden should be thrown on
the poor man's shoulders. The clergy had compounded with the Crown.
The nobles or officials were the assessors, and whether they officiated
for the King, for the Provincial Estates or for themselves, they took
good care that their own contributions to the royal chest should be
even less proportionately than might legally be demanded of them. And
after all the money had been driven into the treasury it was but too
painfully evident what became {33} of it. The fermiers and the
favourites scrambled for the millions and flaunted their splendour in
the face of those who paid for it. The extravagance of the Court was
equalled only by its ineptitude. No proper accounts were kept, because
all but the taxpayers found their interest in squandering. Under
Madame de Pompadour the practice arose that orders for money payments
signed by the King alone should be paid in cash and not passed through
the audit chamber, such as it was. Pensions became a serious drain on
the revenue and rapidly grew to over 50 millions a year at the end of
the reign of Louis XVI. They were not infrequently granted for
ridiculous or scandalous reasons, as in the case of Ducrest,
hairdresser to the eldest daughter of the Comtesse d'Artois, who was
granted an annual pension of 1,700 francs on her death; the child was
then twelve months old; or that of a servant of the actress Clairon,
who was brought into the Oeuil de Boeuf one morning to tell Louis XV a
doubtful story about his mistress; the King laughed so much that he
ordered the fellow to be put down for a pension of 600 francs!
With its finances in such condition the Bourbon monarchy plunged into
war with England {34} in 1778, and, for the satisfaction of Yorktown
and the independence of the United States, spent 1,500 millions of
francs, nearly four years' revenue. At that moment it was estimated
that the people of France paid in taxation about 800 millions annually,
about one-half of which reached the King's chest. But the burden of
debt was so great that by 1789, nearly 250 millions were paid out
annually for interest.
To meet this situation the Government tried many men and many measures.
There were several partial repudiations of debt. The money was
clipped, much to the profit of importers from Amsterdam and other
centres of thrift. Necker made way for Calonne, and Calonne for
Necker. But these names bring us to the current of events that
resulted in the convocation of the States-General by Louis XVI, and
that must be made the subject of another chapter.
[1] The franc comes into use at the period of the Revolution. It will
be employed throughout instead of _livres_ as the standard denomination.
{35}
CHAPTER IV
CONVOCATION OF THE STATES-GENERAL
Louis XVI, grandson of Louis XV, came to the throne in 1774. He showed
some, but not all, of the characteristics of his family. He was of
sluggish intelligence, and extremely slow, not to say embarrassed, in
speech. He was heavy in build and in features. His two great
interests were locksmithing, which he had learned as a boy, and running
the deer and the boar in the great royal forests, St. Germain,
Fontainebleau, Rambouillet. He had all the Bourbon _insouciance_, and
would break off an important discussion of the Council from
indifference, incompetence, or impatience, to go off hunting. Worst of
all, for an autocrat, he had not in his nature one particle of those
qualities that go to make up the man of action, decision, energy,
courage, whole-heartedness. In this he represented the decay of his
race, surfeited with power, victim of the system it {36} had struggled
so long and so hard to establish. At the best he had flashes of common
sense, which, unfortunately for himself, he was never capable of
translating into deeds. He was full of good intentions, of a certain
underlying honesty and benevolence, all rather obscured by his boorish
exterior and manners. Like his ancestors, he ate and drank
voraciously, but, unlike them, he did not care for women. He even
showed some indifference for his wife at first, but later, when she
bore children, he appeared to the public in the character of a good
father of the family. In that and some of his other traits he had
elements of popularity, and he remained in a way popular almost to the
moment of his trial in 1792.
Marie Antoinette of Austria, his wife, was of very different mould; and
in her everything made for unpopularity. She had begun under the worst
auspices. The French public detested the Austrian alliance into which
Madame de Pompadour had dragged France, and had felt the smart of
national disgrace during the Seven Years' War, so that a marriage into
the Hapsburg-Lorraine family after the conclusion of that war, was very
ill received. To make the matter worse a catastrophe marked the
wedding ceremonies, and at a great {37} illumination given by the city
of Paris, a stampede occurred, in which hundreds of lives were lost.
The Austrian princess, _l'Autrichienne_, as she was called from the
first, did not mend matters by her conduct. Until misfortune sobered
her and brought out her stronger and better side, she was incurably
light-headed and frivolous. She was always on the very edge of a _faux
pas_, and her enemies did not fail to accuse her of frequent slips
beyond the edge. The titled riffraff that had adorned the Louis XV-du
Barry court was swept out on the accession of the young Queen, but only
to be replaced by a new clique as greedy as the old, and not vastly
more edifying. Richelieu and d'Aiguillon only made way for Lauzun,
the Polignacs, and Vaudreuil. And if it was an improvement to have a
high-born queen rule Versailles instead of a low-born courtesan, the
difference was not great in the matter of outward dignity, and
especially of the expenditure of public money. Millions that cannot be
computed for lack of proper accounts were poured out for the Queen's
amusements and for the Queen's favourites, men and women.
It was the Controleur whose function was to fill the Court's bottomless
purse. Under this strain and that of the American war, a man of {38}
humble origin but of good repute as an economist and accountant was
called to the office, the Geneva banker, Jacques Necker. For three
years he attempted to carry the burden of the war by small economies
effected at many points, which produced the minimum of result with the
maximum of friction. Finally, in 1781, the Queen drove him from
office. Necker himself provided the excuse by the publication of his
_Compte rendu_, a pamphlet which first put the financial crisis fairly
before the public.
All that the public knew up to this time was that while the Court
maintained its splendour and extravagance, the economic and financial
situation was rapidly getting worse. There was no systematic audit,
there was no budget, there was no annual account published, so that the
finances remained a sealed book, a private matter concerning the King
of France only. But here, in Necker's pamphlet, was an account of
those finances, that revealed to a certain extent the state of affairs,
and, which was even more important, that constituted an appeal to the
public to judge the King's administration. Louis was furious at his
minister's step, and not only dismissed him, but banished him from
Paris.
{39} From 1783 to 1787 the finances were in the hands of Calonne, whose
management proved decisive and fatal. His dominant idea was that of a
courtier,--always to honour any demand made on the treasury by the King
or Queen. To do less would be unworthy of a _gentilhomme_ and a
devoted servant of their Majesties. So Calonne, bowing gracefully,
smiling reassuringly, embarked on a fatal course, borrowing where he
could, anticipating in one direction, defaulting in another, but
always, and somehow, producing the louis necessary to the enjoyment of
the present moment. He reached the end of his tether towards the close
of 1786.
It was during Calonne's administration that occurred the famous affair
of the diamond necklace. It was a vulgar swindle worked on the
Cardinal de Rohan by an adventuress, Mme. de La Motte Valois. Trading
on his credulity and court ambitions, she persuaded him to purchase a
diamond necklace, which the Queen, so he was told, greatly wished but
could not afford. Marie Antoinette was personated in a secret
interview given to Rohan, and Mme. de La Motte got possession of the
diamonds. Presently the jewellers began to press Rohan for payment,
and the secret came out. The {40} King was furious, and sent Rohan to
the royal prison of the Bastille, while Mme. de La Motte was handed
over to the legal procedure of the Parlement of Paris.
This incident created great excitement, and was much distorted by
public report. It left two lasting impressions, one relating to Mme.
de La Motte, the other to the Queen. The adventuress was too obvious a
scapegoat to be spared. While Rohan was allowed to leave the Bastille
after a short imprisonment, the woman was brought to trial, and was
sentenced to public whipping and branding. Her execution was carried
out in bungling fashion, and at the foot of the steps leading to the
law courts, whence Danton's voice was to reverberate so loudly in his
struggle with so-called Justice ten years later, a disgraceful scene
occurred. The crowd saw La Motte struggling in the hands of the
executioners and rolling with them in the gutter, heard her uttering
loud shrieks as the branding iron was at last applied to her shoulders.
The impression produced by this revolting spectacle was profound, and
was heightened by the universal belief that Marie Antoinette was not
less guilty in one direction than Madame de La Motte had been in
another. The outbreak of slander and {41} of libel against the Queen
goes on accumulating from this moment with ever-increasing force until
her death, eight years later. A legend comes into existence, becomes
blacker and blacker, and culminates in the atrocious accusations made
against her by Hébert before the Revolutionary Tribunal; Messalina and
Semiramis are rolled into one to supply a fit basis of comparison. And
the population of Paris broods over this legend, and when revolution
comes, makes of Marie Antoinette the symbol of all that is monstrous,
infamous and cruel in the system of the Bourbons; makes of her the
marked victim of the vengeance of the people.
Meanwhile Calonne was struggling to keep his head above water, and in
the process had come into conflict with the Parlements, or corporations
of judges. At last, in 1786, he went to the King, admitted that he had
no money, that he could borrow no more, and that the only hope lay in
fundamental reform. He proposed, therefore, a number of measures, of
which the most important were that money should be raised by a stamp
tax, that a land tax should be the foundation of the revenue, and that
it should apply to all proprietors, noble, cleric, and of the Third
Estate, with no {42} exceptions. There was no chance, however, as
matters stood, of persuading the Parlements to register decrees for
these purposes, so Calonne proposed that the King should summon an
assembly of the notables of France to give their support to these
reforms. Here again, although Calonne and Louis did not realize it,
was an appeal to public opinion; the monarchy was unconsciously
following the lead of the philosophers, of the dramatists, and of
Necker.
In January, 1788, the Notables assembled, "to learn the King's
intentions," one hundred and fifty of them, mostly nobles and official
persons. In February Calonne put his scheme before them, and then
discovered, to his great astonishment, that they declined to give him
the support, which was all he wanted of them, and that, on the
contrary, they wished to discuss his project, and, in fact, held a very
adverse opinion of it. In this the Notables were not factious; they
merely had enough sense of the gravity of the situation to perceive
that a real remedy was needed, and that Calonne's proposal did not
supply it. His idea was good enough in the abstract, but in practice
there was at least one insurmountable objection, which was that the
land tax could not be established until a cadastral survey of France
had {43} been undertaken--a complicated and lengthy operation. Very
soon Calonne and the Notables had embarked on a contest that gradually
became heated, until finally Calonne appealed from the Notables to the
public by printing and circulating his proposals. The Notables replied
by a protest, and declared that the real reform was economy and that
the Controleur should place before them proper accounts. This proved
the end of Calonne, his position had long been weak, he now toppled
over, and was replaced by Loménie de Brienne, Archbishop of Toulouse.
Loménie was an agreeable courtier, and well liked by the Queen, but he
was also a liberal, an encyclopedist, and a member of the Assembly of
Notables. He succeeded in getting the approval of that body for a loan
of 60,000,000 francs, and then, on the 1st of May, 1787, dissolved it.
The new minister had, however, come to the opinion that his
predecessor's programme was the only possible one, and as soon as he
had got rid of the Notables, his late colleagues, he attempted to get
the Parlement of Paris to register the new laws.
The Parlement resisted; and popular discontent became a serious feature
of the situation. The Chancellor, Lamoignon, was burnt {44} in effigy
by the mob. In July, 1787, the Parlement of Paris demanded that the
States-General of the kingdom should be assembled. For a whole year
the struggle between the judges and the ministers grew hotter and
hotter. The arrest of d'Éspréménil, one of the leaders of the
Parlement, in May, 1788, led to severe rioting in Paris, and only the
energetic use of police and troops saved the situation. Not only did
the provincial Parlements support that of Paris in its resistance to
the Court, but the provinces themselves began to stir, and finally, a
month after d'Éspréménil's arrest, a large meeting at Grenoble decided
to call together the old Estates of the province, the province of
Dauphiné.
This was almost civil war, and threatened to plunge France back into
the conditions of two centuries earlier. The Government ordered troops
to Grenoble to put down the movement. The commanding general, however,
on arriving near the city, found the situation so alarming that he
agreed to a compromise, whereby the Estates were to hold a meeting, but
not in the capital of the province. Accordingly, at the village of
Vizille, on the 21st of July, several hundred persons assembled,
representing the three orders, nobility, clergy, and {45} Third Estate
of the province; and of these it had been previously agreed that the
Third Estate should be allowed double representation.
The leading figure of the assembly of Vizille was Jean Joseph Mounier.
He was a middle class man, a lawyer, upright, intelligent, yet
moderate, who felt the need of reform, and who was prepared to labour
for it. He inspired all the proceedings at Vizille, and as secretary
of the Estates, had the chief part in drawing up its resolutions.
These demanded the convocation of the States-General of France, pledged
the province to refuse to pay all taxes not voted by the
States-General, and called for the abolition of arbitrary imprisonment
on the King's order by the warrant known as the _lettre de cachet_.
The effect of the resolutions of the assembly of Vizille through France
was immediate. They were simple, direct, and voiced the general
feeling; they also indicated that the moment had come for interfering
in the chronic mismanagement of affairs. So irresistible was their
force that Loménie de Brienne and the King accepted them with hardly a
struggle. The minister was now at the end of his borrowing powers and
in the month of August his tenure of power came to a close. Before
{46} leaving office he suspended payments, and issued a decree
convoking the States-General for the 1st of May, 1789. He was
succeeded by Necker.
It was unfortunate for the Bourbon monarchy that at this great crisis a
king and a minister should have come together, both lacking initiative,
both lacking courage, and yet not even sympathetic, but, on the
contrary, lacking mutual confidence and refusing one another mutual
support. And while Louis lacked executive vigour, so Necker tended
always to lose himself in figures, in details, in words, in fine
sentiments, and to neglect the essential for the unimportant. He was
well intentioned but narrow, and merely followed the current of events.
From all parts of France advice and representations reached him as to
the conditions under which the States-General should be convoked.
Their last meeting had been held as far back as 1614, so that there was
naturally much uncertainty on questions of procedure. Partly to clear
this, partly to find some support for his own timidity, Necker called
the Notables together again. They met in November and helped to settle
the conditions under which the elections {47} to the States-General and
their convocation should take place.
The old constitutional theory of the States-General was that it was an
assembly of the whole French nation, represented by delegates, and
divided into three classes. Thus it was tribal in that it comprised
every Frenchman within its scope, and feudal in that it formed the
caste distinctions, noble, clergy, people. In other words it afforded
little ground for comparison with the English Parliament; the point at
which it approached it nearest being in the matter of the power to vote
the taxation levied by the Crown; but this power the States-General had
lost so far back as the 15th century.
This fundamental conception entailed another, which was that the
delegates of the nation were not members of a parliament or debating
assembly, but were mere mandatories charged by the electors with a
specific commission, which was to place certain representations before
the King. This meant that in the stage previous to the election of
these delegates, the electors should draw up a statement of their
complaints and a mandate or instructions for their representatives.
This was in fact done, {48} and many thousands of _cahiers_, as they
were called, were drawn up all over France, in which the demands of as
many individuals, or corporations, or bodies of electors were stated.
These were summarized into three cahiers for each province, and
eventually into three, one from each order, for all France, and these
last three were in due course presented to Louis XVI.
As a source of information on the economic and social condition of a
country, the cahiers are the most wonderful collection of documents
available for the historian. Many of them have been more or less
faithfully published, and at the present day the French government is
liberally helping on the work of making them public. But in a work of
this scope it is impossible to go at length into the state of affairs
which they depict; only the most salient features can be dealt with.
First, then, it must be said that the cahiers present at the same time
remarkable uniformity and wide divergence. The agreement lies partly
in their general spirit, and partly in the repetition of certain
formulas preached throughout the country by eager pamphleteers and
budding political leaders. The divergence can be placed under three
chief heads: the markedly different character of a great part {49} of
the cahiers of the clergy from those of the other two orders;
provincial divergence and peculiarities of local customs; demands for
the maintenance of local privileges. Of the last class, Marseilles, a
port with many commercial and political privileges, affords perhaps the
most extreme example. The uniformity is to be seen especially in the
general spirit of these complaints to the King. One feels, while
reading the _cahiers_, the unanimity of a long-suffering people anxious
for a release from intolerable misgovernment,--more than that, anxious
to have their institutions modernized, but all in a spirit of complete
loyalty and devotion to the King and to all that was wise, and good,
and glorious, and beneficent, that he still seemed to represent. The
illusion of Bourbonism was at that moment, so far as surface
appearances went, practically untouched.
The noblesse and the clergy conducted their elections by means of small
meetings and chose their delegates from among themselves. The Tiers
Etat elected as its representatives men of the upper middle class and
professional class; the lower classes, ignorant and politically
untutored, were unrepresented and accepted tutelage with more or less
alacrity--more in the provinces, less in Paris. But in addition, a
{50} small number of men belonging to the privileged orders sought and
obtained mandates from the lower. Sieyès and a few other priests,
Mirabeau and a few other nobles, were elected to the States-General by
the Third Estate.
Sieyès, of powerful mind, a student of constitutionalism, terse and
logical in expression, had made a mark during the electoral period with
his pamphlet, _Qu'est-ce que le Tiers Etat?_ What is the Third Estate?
His reply was: It is everything; it has been nothing; it should be
something. This was a reasonable and forceful exposition of the views
of the twenty-five millions. Mirabeau, of volcanic temperament and
morals, with the instinct of a statesman and the conscience of an
outlaw, greedy of power as of money, with thundering voice, ready
rhetoric, and keen perception, turned from his own order to the people
for his mandate. He saw clearly enough from the beginning that reform
could not stop at financial changes, but must throw open the government
of France to the large class of intelligent citizens with which her
developed civilization had endowed her.
The outstanding fact brought out by this infiltration of the noblesse
and clergy into the {51} Third Estate, was clear: the deputies to the
States-General, whichever order they belonged to, were nearly all
members of the educated middle and upper class of France. Part of the
deputies of the noblesse stood for class privilege, and so did a
somewhat larger part of those of the clergy. But a great number in
both these orders were of the same sentiment as the deputies of the
Third Estate. They were intelligent and patriotic Frenchmen, full of
the teaching of Voltaire, and Rousseau, and Montesquieu, convinced by
their eyes as well as by their intellect that Bourbonism must be
reformed for its own sake, for the sake of France, and for the sake of
humanity.
{52}
CHAPTER V
FRANCE COMES TO VERSAILLES
At the beginning of May, twelve hundred and fourteen representatives of
France reached Versailles. Of these, six hundred and twenty-one, more
than half, belonged to the Third Estate, and of the six hundred and
twenty-one more than four hundred had some connection with the law,
while less than forty belonged to the farming class. Little
preparation had been made for them; the King had continued to attend to
his hounds and horses, the Queen to her balls and dresses, and Necker
to his columns of figures, his hopes, and his illusions. But the
arrival of this formidable body of men of trained intellect in the
royal city, now that it had occurred, at once caused a certain
uneasiness. As they walked about the city in curious groups, it was as
though France were surveying the phenomenon of Versailles with critical
eye; at the very first occasion the courtiers, feeling this, set to
work to teach the {53} deputies of the Third Estate a lesson, to put
them in their place.
On the 4th and 5th of May the opening ceremonies took place,
processions, mass, a sermon, speeches; and the Court's policy, if such
it could be called, was revealed. The powerful engine known as
etiquette was brought into play, to indicate to the deputies what
position and what influence in the State the King intended they should
have. This was perhaps the greatest revelation of the inherent
weakness of Bourbonism; the system had, in its decline, become little
more than etiquette, and Louis XVI seen hard at work in his
shirt-sleeves would have shattered the illusions of centuries. And so,
by means of the myriad contrivances of masters of ceremonies and Court
heralds the Third Estate was carefully made to feel its social
inferiority, its political insignificance.
The Third Estate noted these manifestations of the Court with due
sobriety, and met the attack squarely. But while on the part of the
Court this way of approaching the great national problem never attained
a higher dignity than a policy of pin pricks, with the Third Estate it
was at once converted into a constitutional question of fundamental
importance. Was the distinction between the three orders {54} to be
maintained? was the noble or priest a person of social and political
privilege? or were the deputies of all to meet in one assembly and have
equal votes? That was the great question, as the Third Estate chose to
state it, and, translated into historical terms, it meant no less than
the passing of the feudal arrangement of society in separate castes
into the new system of what is known at our day as democracy.
Nearly all the cahiers of the Third Estate and many of those of the
noblesse, had demanded this measure, and the Third Estate on assembling
to verify the mandates of its members immediately called on the other
two orders to join it in this proceeding. The struggle over this point
continued from the 5th of May to the 9th of June, before any decisive
step was taken. But as the days went by, apparently in fruitless
debate, there was in reality a constant displacement of influence going
on in favor of the Third Estate. In the opening session the statement
of affairs made by Necker had left a very poor impression. Since then
the ministers had done nothing, save to attempt, by a feeble
intervention, to keep the orders apart. And all the time the Third
Estate was gradually becoming conscious of its own strength and of the
feebleness {55} of the adversary. And so at last, on the 10th of June,
Sieyès moved, Mirabeau supporting, that the noblesse and the clergy
should be formally summoned to join the Tiers, and that on the 12th,
verification of powers for the whole of the States-General should take
place.
Accordingly on the 12th, under the presidency of the astronomer Bailly,
senior representative of the city of Paris, the Tiers began the
verification of the deputies' mandates. On the 13th, three members of
the clergy, three country priests, asked admission. They were received
amid scenes of the greatest enthusiasm, and within a few days their
example proved widely contagious. On the 14th, a new step was taken,
and the deputies, belonging now to a body that was clearly no longer
the Tiers Etat, voted themselves a _National Assembly_. This was, in a
sense, accomplishing the Revolution.
So rapidly did the Tiers now draw the other parts of the Assembly to
itself that on the 19th, the Clergy formally voted for reunion. This
brought the growing uneasiness and alarm of the Court to a head.
Necker's influence was now on the wane. The King's youngest brother,
the Comte d'Artois, at this moment on good terms with the Queen, and
Marie {56} Antoinette herself, were for putting an end to the mischief
before it went further, and they prevailed. It was decided that the
King should intervene, and should break up the States-General into its
component parts once more by an exercise of the royal authority.
On the morning of the 20th of June, in a driving rain, the deputies
arriving at their hall found the doors closed and workmen in
possession. This was the contemptuous manner in which the Court chose
to intimate to them that preparations were being made for a royal
session which was to take place two days later. Alarmed and indignant,
the deputies proceeded to the palace tennis court close by,--the _Jeu
de Paume_,--and there
|
in photographs when Madame de Gandry and Mrs. Ferguson
were announced and rustled in.
Madame de Gandry--a pale brunette, interesting rather than pretty, with
a turned-up nose and hard bright eyes, noisy and coquettish,
inconsiderate and saucy, because she fancied it gave her style--had for
the last five years ruled the destinies of Prince Norina. Society had,
however, agreed, perhaps for its own convenience, to regard their
intimacy as mere good fellowship. The lady was looked upon as one of
those giddy creatures who love to sport on the edge of an abyss. Mrs.
Ferguson, the daughter of a hotel-keeper at San Francisco and wife of a
man whose wealth increased daily, was the exact opposite to Madame de
Gandry--white and pink, with large eyes and sharp little teeth, very
slender and flat-figured like many Americans. She dyed her hair,
rouged, dressed conspicuously, spoke eccentric English and detestable
French, sang Judic's songs, and had been introduced to Roman society by
the Marchese B---- who had met her at Nice. Her friendship with Madame
de Gandry had begun on the strength of a landau they had hired between
them, had culminated in an opera-box on the same terms, and would
probably be destroyed by a lover--in common too.
A few gentlemen had also arrived: Count de Gandry, who looked like a
hair-dresser and was suspected of carrying on a covert business as
dealer in antiquities; M. Dieudonné Crespigny de Bellancourt, a
square-built French diplomatist, the son of a butcher and son-in-law to
a duke, etc., etc. The latest bankruptcy, the climate of Rome, the
excavations, were all discussed. Madame de Gandry and Mrs. Ferguson
submitted at first to the tedium of a general conversation, but
contrived at the same time to attract as much of the men's attention as
was possible under the circumstances. Soon after eleven the Countess
Ilsenbergh came in; she had come from a grand dinner and looked bored
to death.
"It really is absurd how one meets every one in Rome," she said
presently, when she had been questioned as to the how and where of the
party she had just quitted. "Who do you think I came across to-day,
Marie?--That Lenz girl from Vienna; now she is a duchess or a Countess
Montidor--Heaven knows which; once, years ago, I had something to do
with a charity sale she got up, so now she comes up to me as if I were
an old acquaintance and pretends to be intimate, talks of 'we
Austrians,' and 'at home at Vienna.'--Amusing, rather?"
"Poor Fritzi! I feel for you!" exclaimed Sempaly with a malicious
laugh. "But there is a greater treat in store for you. The Sterzl
women, mother and sister, are coming in a few days."
"Indeed! that is pleasant certainly!"
"Why?" asked Madame de Gandry, throwing herself into the conversation.
"Are they objectionable people?"
"By no means," said the countess quickly. "I believe they are the most
respectable people in the world, but--it is a bore to be constantly
meeting people here whom one could not possibly recognize in Vienna.
You should give him a hint, Nicki--tell him--explain to him...."
"To be sure," said Sempaly laughing, "I might say: Look here, my good
friend, beware of taking your mother and sister out anywhere; my cousin
the countess would rather not meet them."
The countess shrugged her shoulders and turned away from her flippant
interlocutor, tapping her fan impatiently. "Do you mean to receive them
Marie?" she asked.
"Whom do I not receive?" said the princess in an undertone, with a
significant glance.
"Well I cannot--decidedly not," said the countess excitedly, "though I
shall be grieved to annoy Sterzl. It will be his own fault entirely if
he forces me to explain myself."
"Do as you think proper," replied her friend, "but you know I am very
fond of Sterzl; he stands high in my good graces."
"What! _le Paysan du Danube_?" giggled Madame de Gandry, who had only
partly understood the conversation.
"Sterzl is a man of the highest respectability," said the countess
icily; she did not intend to allow that little French woman to laugh at
her fellow-countryman, though he was not a man of birth.
"_Le Paysan du Danube_ is my particular friend," said the princess with
the simple heartiness that was so peculiarly her own. "I am very fond
of him; he is quite one of ourselves."
"He can have no higher reward on earth," said her brother with
good-humored irony.
"When my small boy fell and broke his arm, here in this very room,
Sterzl picked him up, and you should have seen how gently he held my
poor darling," added the princess.
"That is ample evidence in favor of the fact that his woman-kind are
presentable," laughed Sempaly.
"But allow me to ask," interposed the Madame de Gandry, "just that I
may understand what I am about--these Sterzls, they are not in good
society in Austria?"
"Our Austrian etiquette can afford no standpoint for foreign society,"
said Truyn with unusual sharpness, for he could not endure Madame de
Gandry; "we receive no one who is not by birth one of ourselves."
"Yes," said Sempaly with a keen glance, "Austrian society is as
exclusive as the House of Israel, and scorns proselytes." And the
leather-seller's daughter, who had not understood--or not chosen to
understand Truyn's speech, replied with much presence of mind: "Ah, I
am glad to know what I am about."
Siegburg, who was sitting behind her, glanced at Sempaly and made an
expressive grimace.
Princess Vulpini looked almost spiteful. "I will not leave Sterzl in
the lurch," she said, "and if his sister is like his description of
her...."
"He has talked to you about his sister?" interrupted Sempaly.
"To be sure," said the princess with a smile, "and to you too, I should
not wonder, Nicki?"
"No indeed, he does not show me his sacred places, I am not worthy,"
replied Sempaly. "He only told me that she was coming, and with a very
singular smile. Hm, Hm! he seems to set great store by the young lady
and will no doubt look out for a fine match for her. I should not
wonder if he had got her here for that express purpose. Norina, take
care of yourself--forewarned you know...."
"Mademoiselle Sterzl will hardly aspire to a prince's crown!" exclaimed
Madame de Gandry, up in arms to defend her property.
"Sterzl will not let his sister go for less," asserted Sempaly.
"Do not talk such nonsense," said Truyn, to check Sempaly's audacity.
But Sempaly was leaning over a table and scribbling on the back of an
old letter; presently he handed the half sheet to the Countess
Ilsenbergh; Madame de Gandry peeped over her shoulder.
"Capital!" she exclaimed, "delicious!" Sempaly had sketched Sterzl as
an auctioneer, the hammer in one hand and a fashionably-dressed doll in
the other, with all the Princes in Rome crowded round. In one corner he
had written: "This lot--Fräulein Sterzl--once, twice, thrice...."
The sketch was handed round; the likeness of Sterzl was unmistakable.
Soon after the Countess Ilsenbergh went away, and as the company were
not in the best of humors the two friends also withdrew shortly after
midnight followed by those gentlemen who had come in their train.
"Fritzi is really a victim to an _idée fixe_," the princess began when
this indiscreet group had departed; "she wants me to entrench myself in
dignified reserve against this poor little thing. What harm can the
child do me?"
"I cannot imagine," said Siegburg; "indeed, if she is pretty and has
some money, it strikes me I will marry her myself--that will set
matters straight" Siegburg was fond of talking of the money that his
wife must bring him, and liked to air the selfishness of which he was
innocent, as very rich folks sometimes make a parade of poverty.
"And it was really very stupid of Fritzi to ventilate this idiotic
nonsense before those two women," added the princess, who was apt to
express herself strongly; but nothing that she said ever sounded badly,
on the contrary, she lent a grace to whatever she said. "Does she think
she can make me turn exclusive!"
"I hope you observed how that pinchbeck countess was prepared to tread
in her footsteps," said Seigburg.
Truyn meanwhile was hunting eagerly about the chimney-shelf and the
tables, assisted by the master of the house.
"What are you looking for, Erich?" asked his sister.
"For that sketch of Sempaly's. I should not like to leave the thing
about. Excuse me, Nicki, the caricature was capital, I have nothing to
say against it, if it had only been among ourselves; but you really
ought not to have shown it to strangers. You are so heedless, you do
not think of what you are doing."
"And what have I done now?" asked Sempaly without any trace of
annoyance.
"You have simply stamped this young girl as an adventuress on the
look-out for a husband."
"Pooh! as if so trifling a jest could be taken in earnest!" said
Sempaly. They searched everywhere for the caricature but in vain.
"I am convinced that wretched woman put it in her pocket!" cried the
princess indignantly. That wretched woman was of course Madame de
Gandry.
* * *
It was true that Princess Vulpini was very fond of Sterzl, and he
returned her regard with almost rapturous devotion. In spite of an
unpolished and absent manner he had a vein of poetic chivalry and a
pure reverence for true and lofty womanhood. He could not think it
worth his while to offer to any woman that flattery--often impertinent
enough in reality--that gratifies some of the sex, and he had never
learnt the A B C of modern gallantry; but in his intercourse with those
whom he spoke of as "true women" there was a touch of chivalrous
protection and reserved deference. His behavior to them was so full of
an old-fashioned courtesy that he was certain to win their favor; he
treated them partly like children that must be cared for, and partly
like sacred beings before whom we must bow the knee.
Immediately on his arrival in Rome the princess found great pleasure in
their acquaintance, she confided to him all her little indignation at
this or that grievance in Rome, and allowed him to take a variety of
small cares off her shoulders, being, as all women of her soft nature
are, very fastidious and utterly unpractical.
There had been few sweeter girls in the Vienna world than the Countess
Marie Truyn in her day, and there was not now in all Rome a more
lovable woman than the Princess Vulpini. When in the afternoons she
drove out in her open carriage, with her four or five children that
looked as though they had been stolen straight out of one of Kate
Greenaway's picture books, along the Corso to the Villa Borghese, her
fashionable acquaintance, who had brought out their most recent or most
fashionable bosom-friend instead of their children, would exclaim:
"Here comes true happiness!" And the men bowed to her with particular
respect, eager to win the friendly and gracious smile that warmed all
hearts like a ray of spring sunshine. She had never been a regular
beauty and had early lost her youthful freshness and the slim figure
that had been almost proverbial. Nevertheless her charm was
undiminished; her chief ornament, a wonderful abundance of bright brown
hair, was as fine as ever and she wore it still, as when a girl of
sixteen, simply combed back and gathered into a knot low down at the
back. In spite of her faded complexion there was a childlike sweetness
in her small round face, with its kind little eyes, its delicate
turned-up nose, and soft lips that had no beauty till they smiled. All
her movements were simple and graceful and her whole appearance
conveyed the impression of exquisite refinement and the loftiest
womanliness. Her dress was apt to be a little out of fashion, the
latest _chic_ never suited her. She was a great reader, even of very
solid books, especially affecting natural science; but she retained
nevertheless the literal faith of her infancy, and this innocent
orthodoxy was part and parcel of the simple fervency of her character.
Sempaly, who was sincerely attached to her, always spoke of her devout
piety as one of her most engaging qualities; he declared that a woman
to be truly sympathetic must be religious; that a man may allow himself
to profess free thought, but that a sceptical woman was as odious as a
woman with a hump. To this observation, which Sempaly once threw out in
the presence of Sterzl, Cecil took great exception, though he himself
was as devoid of religious beliefs as Sempaly himself; he thought it
impertinent.
"Men do not jest about the women whose names are sacred to them," he
said with the pedantic chivalry, which always provoked his colleague's
opposition. However, Sempaly only retorted with a sneering smile and a
shrug.
CHAPTER IV.
A few days after the evening when Sempaly had given such brilliant
proof of his talent as a caricaturist, General von Klinger was sitting
in his studio on a divan covered with a picturesque Persian rug and
endeavoring--having for the moment nothing better to do--to teach his
parrot to sing the Austrian anthem--a loyal task which the bird,
perched on the top of its cage, persistently refused to learn. It was a
gorgeous studio, with a coved ceiling painted in fresco and a _rococo_
plaster cornice, the walls hung with old tapestry, eastern stuffs and
other "properties." It was so large that men looked like dwarfs in it,
and the general's works of art like illustrations cut out of a picture
book. The scirocco brooded in the atmosphere and the general was out of
sorts; he could not get on with his painting, and though it was now a
quarter to five not a visitor had he seen. Usually by this hour he had
a number--nay sometimes too many. The general often grumbled--to
himself of course--at the interruption; but he always enjoyed the
little dissipation; it made him melancholy to be left to himself.
He was thinking just now how difficult it was to get on as a painter;
his coloring was capital--so all his artist friends assured him; but
that his drawing left much to be desired he himself confessed. His two
strong points were a harmonious effect of grey tone and horses seen
from behind. All his pictures returned to him from the exhibitions
unsold, excepting one which was purchased by the emperor in
consideration of the general's former merits as a soldier rather than
of his talents as an artist. The painters who came to smoke his
cigarettes accounted for this by saying that his artistic aims were too
independent, that he made no concessions to public taste and so could
not hope for popularity.
He was in the very act of whistling the national anthem for the
sixteenth time to the recalcitrant bird, when he heard a knock at the
door; he rose to open it and Sempaly came in. He had called to inform
the general that he had discovered a very fine though much damaged
piece of tapestry in a convent, and had bought it for a mere song; he
had in fact purchased it for the general because he knew that it was
just such a specimen as he had long wished for. "But if you do not care
to take it I shall be very glad to keep it," he added. No one had the
art of doing an obliging thing with a better grace than he; it was one
of his little accomplishments.
When they had settled their business Sempaly broke into loud
lamentations that he was obliged to dine that day at the British
embassy, and then to dance at the French ambassador's, and raved about
the ideal life led by his friend--he only wished he could lead such a
life--in which there were no evening parties, routs, balls or dinners.
Next he wandered round the room looking at all the studies that hid
their faces against the wall. "Charming!" "Superb!" he kept exclaiming
in French, with his Austrian accent, from a sheer impulse to say
something pleasant--he always tried to make himself pleasant. "Why do
not you work that thing up?" he said at length, pointing to a sketch on
canvas of a group of bashibazouks.
"It might sell," replied the artist whose great difficulty always lay
in the 'working up,' "but you know I am independent in my aims, I set
my face against making concessions to the vulgar; I must work on my own
principles and not to pander to the public."
Sempaly smiled at this profession of faith.
"As it is a mere whim with you ever to sell at all," he answered, "my
advice is that you should never attempt it, but leave all your works to
the nation, so that we may have a _Musée Wierz_ at Vienna."
The general assured him that he was quite in earnest in his desire to
sell his pictures, but Sempaly smiled knowingly.
"There was once upon a time," he began, "a cobbler who was a man of
genius, but he prided himself on his sense of beauty and his artistic
convictions, and he heeded not the requirements of his customers--he
would make nothing but Greek sandals. He died a beggar, but happy in
the consciousness of never having made a concession to the vulgar."
The general was on the point of making an indignant reply to this
malicious anecdote, when the loud rap was again heard which seems to be
traditional at a studio door; it is supposed to be necessary to arouse
the artist from his absorption in his work. The general went to admit
his visitor.
There was a small ante-room between the studio and the stairs. The door
was no sooner opened than in flitted a slender creature, fair and
blooming, tall, slim, and bewitchingly pretty, in a dark dress and a
sealskin jacket.
"What, you Zinka!" cried the old general delightedly. "This is a
surprise! How long have you been in Rome?"
"Only since this morning," answered a gay voice.
"And are you alone?" asked the artist in astonishment, as Zinka shut
the door and went forward into the atelier.
"Yes, quite alone," she said calmly. "I left the maid at home; she and
mamma are fast asleep, resting after their journey. I came alone in a
carriage--it was very nice of me do not you think?--Why, what a face to
make!... And why have you not given me a kiss. Uncle Klinger?" She
stood before him bright and confident, her head a little thrown back,
her hands in a tiny muff, gazing at him with surprise in her frank grey
eyes.
"My dear Zinka...." the general began--for, like all conscientious old
gentlemen with romantic memories, he was desperately punctilious as to
the proprieties when any lady in whom he took an interest was
implicated, "I am charmed, delighted to see you.... But in a strange
place, where you know no one, and in a strange house where...."
"Oh, now I understand," cried the girl. "It is not proper!... I shall
live to be a hundred before I know exactly what is proper; it is very
odd, but Uncle Sterzl used always to say that it was of no use to worry
about it; that if people were ladies and gentlemen everything was
proper, and if they were not why it was all the same. But he did not
know what he was talking about, it would seem!" and she turned sharply
on her heel and made for the door.
"But, my dear Zinka," cried the general holding her back, "tell me at
least where you are living before you whisk off like a whirlwind. Do
not be so utterly unreasonable."
"I am perfectly reasonable," she retorted. She was both embarrassed
and angry; her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes full of tears. "It
never would have occurred to me certainly that there was anything
improper in calling on an old gentleman," and she emphasized the words
quite viciously, "in his studio. Oh, the vanity of men! Who can
foresee its limits!--But I am perfectly reasonable, I acknowledge my
mistake--simpleton that I am!... And I have been looking forward all
day to taking you by surprise. I meant to ask you to dine with us at
the Hotel de l'Europe and to come with me first to the Pincio to see
the sunset. And these are the thanks I get!... Do not trouble yourself
to get your hat, it is waste of trouble; I do not want you now.
Good-bye." And she flew off, her head in the air, without looking back
once at the general who dutifully escorted her to the carriage.
The old man came back much crest-fallen. A voice greeted him
cheerfully:
"Quite in disgrace, general!"
It was Sempaly, who had witnessed the whole scene from a recess, and
whom the general had entirely forgotten.
"So it seems," said he shortly, beginning to scrape his palette.
"But tell me who is this despotic little princess?"
"Who? My god-daughter, Zinka Sterzl."
* * *
Thunderbolts are out of date, no one believes in them now-a-days;
nevertheless it is a fact, which Sempaly himself never contradicted,
that he fell in love with Zinka at first sight. And when a few days
after Zinka's irruption into the general's studio the old gentleman
accepted an invitation to dine with the Baroness Sterzl at the Hotel de
l'Europe, on entering the room he found, eagerly employed in looking
over a quantity of photographs with the young lady--Count Sempaly.
The two gentlemen were the only guests, and yet--or perhaps in
consequence--the little party was as gay and pleasant as was possible
with so affected and formal a hostess as the "Baroness."
This lady, a narrow and perverse soul as ever lived, was the very
essence of vanity and affectation. She imagined--Heaven alone knows on
what grounds--that the general had formerly loved her hopelessly, and
she always treated him accordingly with a consideration that was
intolerably irritating. She had made great strides in the airs of
refinement since she and the general had last met--at a time before
she, or rather her children, had become rich through an advantageous
sale of part of their land, and this of course added to the charms of
her society. She was perpetually complaining in a tone of feeble
elegance--the sleeping-carriages were intolerable, the seats were so
badly stuffed, Rome was so dirty, the hotels were so bad, the
conveyances so miserable; she brought in the names of all the
aristocratic acquaintances they had made at Nice, at Meran, and at
Biarritz, and asked--the next day being a saint's day--which church was
fit to go to. The vehement old general answered hotly that "God was in
them all." But Sempaly informed her with the politest gravity that
Cardinal X---- read mass in the morning at St. Peter's and that the
music was splendid. "I advise you to try St. Peter's."
"Indeed, is St. Peter's possible on a saint's day?" she asked. "The
company is usually so mixed in those large churches."
The general fairly blushed for her follies on her children's account.
"Have you forgiven me, Zinka?" he said to change the conversation.
"As if I had time to trouble myself about your strait-laced
proprieties!" exclaimed she, coloring slightly; she evidently did not
like this allusion to her little indiscretion: "I have something much
worse to think about."
"Why--what is the matter, sweetheart?" asked her brother, who took
everything seriously.
"I have lost something," she said in a tone of deep melancholy which
evidently covered some jest.
"Not a four-leaved shamrock or a medal blessed by the pope?" asked the
general.
"Oh, no! something much more important."
"Your purse!" exclaimed the baroness hastily. But Zinka burst out
laughing. "No, no, something much greater--you will never guess: Rome."
On which Sterzl, who could never make out what his fascinating little
sister would be at, only said: "That is beyond me."
But Sempaly was sympathetic. "I see you are terribly disappointed," he
said, and Zinka went on like a person accustomed to be listened to.
"Yes, ever since I could think at all I have dreamed of Rome and longed
to see it. My Rome was a suburb of Heaven, but this Rome is a suburb of
Paris. My Rome was glorious and this Rome is simply hideous."
"Do not be flippant, Zinka," said the general, who always upheld
traditional worship.
"Well, as a city Rome is really very ugly," interposed her brother, "it
is more interesting as a museum of antiquities with life-size
illustrations. Still, you do not know it yet. You have seen nothing as
yet...."
"But lodgings, you mean," retorted Zinka, casting down her eyes with
sanctimonious sauciness.
"It is dreadful!" the baroness began, "we have been here five days and
cannot find an apartment fit to live in. Wherever we go there is some
drawback; the stairs are too dark, or the entrance is bad, or there is
only one door to the salon, or the servants' rooms...."
"But my dear Zinka," interrupted the general, "if you really have seen
nothing of Rome excepting the lodgings in the Corso, of course...."
"Oh! but I have seen something else," cried Zinka, "indeed, I know my
way about Rome very well."
"In your dreams?"
"No, I went yesterday; mamma had a sick headache."
"Oh! those headaches!" sighed the baroness putting her salts to her
nose, "I am a perfect martyr to them!"
To have sick headaches and be a strict Catholic were marks of good
style in the baroness's estimation. Sempaly put on a sympathetic
expression, but returned at once to the subject in hand.
"Yes, I know Rome very well," Zinka went on: "You have only to ask the
driver of the street cab No. 1203, and he will tell you. I drove about
with him for three hours yesterday. You see, to have been in Rome a
whole week and to have seen nothing but furnished lodgings was really
too bad, so I took advantage of the opportunity when mamma was in bed;
I slipped out--you need not make that face, Uncle, I took the maid with
me--we meant to walk everywhere with a map. Of course we lost our way,
_cela va sans dire_, and as we were standing helpless, each holding the
map by a corner, a driver signed to us--so, with his first finger. In
we got and he asked us where we wished to go, but as I had no answer
ready he said with the most paternal air: 'Ah! the signora wants to see
Rome--good, I will show her Rome!' And he set off, round and round and
in and out, all through the city. I was positively giddy with this
waltz round all the sights of Rome. He showed me a perfect forest of
fallen pillars, with images of gods and fragments of sculpture
carefully heaped round them, like Christmas boxes for lovers of
antiquities--'the _Campo Vaccino_,' he called it--I believe it was the
Forum; then he pointed out the palace of Beatrice Cenci, the Jews'
quarter, the Theatre of Marcellus, the Temple of Vesta; and every time
he showed me anything he added: 'Now am I not a capital guide? Many a
driver would only take you from place to place, and what would you see?
Nothing... a heap of stones... but I tell you: that is the Colisseum,
and this is the Portico of Octavia, and then the stones have some
meaning.' And at last he set me down at the door of the hotel and said
quite seriously: 'Now the signora has seen Rome.'"
They were now at dessert; the baroness looked anything rather than
pleased.
"Allow me to request," she said, "that for the future in the first
place you will not make friends with a common driver and in the second,
that you will not drive about Rome in a _Botta_ (a one horse carriage);
it is not at all the thing. You have no sense of fitness whatever."
Zinka, who was both sensitive and spoilt, colored.
"Let her be, mother, why should she not learn a little Italian and ride
in a _Botta_? said Sterzl, who rubbed his mother the wrong way from
morning till night. Sempaly took prompt advantage of the situation to
whisper to Zinka:
"I cannot promise to be as good company as your _Botta_ driver, but if
you will allow me, I will do my best to help you to find the Rome you
have lost."
"Are you sure you know your way about?" asked the girl with frank
incivility.
"I am the _laquais de place_ of the Embassy I assure you," replied
Sempaly laughing; "my only serious occupation consists in showing
strangers the sights of Rome."
After this the evening passed gaily; the baroness made a few idiotic
speeches but Sempaly forbore to be ironical; he was on his very best
behavior, and the baroness was quite taken in by his elaborate reserve.
Not so Sterzl, who was himself too painfully alive to her aristocratic
airs and pretensions. However, the society of his sister, whom he
adored, had put him into the best of humors; he launched forth a few
bitter epigrams against the priesthood, and was satirical about the
society of Rome, but Zinka stopped him every time with some engaging
nonsense, and in listening to her chatter he forgot his bitterness.
At last he asked her to sing a Moravian popular song; she seated
herself at the hotel piano and began. There was something mystical in
the low veiled tones of her voice like an echo of the past, as she sang
the melancholy, dreamy strains of her native land. Sterzl, who always
yawned all through an opera, listened to her singing, his head resting
on his hand, in a sort of ecstasy. In Sempaly too, who in spite of his
Hungarian name was by birth a Moravian, Zinka's simple melody roused
the half-choked echoes of his youth, and when she ceased he thanked her
with genuine feeling.
Zinka's was an April weather nature. After bringing the tears into the
eyes of her hearers, nay into her own, with her song, she suddenly
struck up an air by Lecocq that she had heard Judic sing at Nice. The
words, as was perfectly evident to all the party, were Hebrew to the
girl, but the baroness was beside herself.
"Zinka!" she exclaimed in extreme consternation, "you really are
incredible--what must these gentlemen think of you!"
"Do not be in the least uneasy," said the general. But Zinka stopped
short; her face was pale and quivering; Sterzl interposed:
"It is often a little difficult to follow my sister's vagaries," he
said turning to Sempaly; then he tenderly stroked her golden head with
his large, firm hand, saying: "Do not be unhappy, sweetheart; but you
are a little too much of a goose for your age."
When presently Sempaly had quitted the hotel with the general his first
words were: "Tell me, how is it that with such a fool of a mother that
child has remained so angelically fresh--so _Botticelli_?"
CHAPTER V.
A mine somewhere in Poland or Bohemia came to grief about this time by
some accidental visitation, and five hundred families were left
destitute through the disaster. Of course the opportunity was
immediately seized upon for charitable dissipations, for qualifying for
Orders of Merit by liberal donations, and for attracting the eyes of
Europe by the most extravagant display of philanthropy. After much
deliberation Countess Ilsenbergh had arrived at the conviction that, as
both the ambassadors' families were hindered by mourning from giving
any public entertainment, the duty of taking the lead devolved upon
her. The rooms in her Palazzo were made on purpose for grand
festivities, and after endless discussion it was decided that the
entertainment should be dramatic. An Operetta, a _Proverbe_ by Musset,
and a series of _Tableaux Vivants_ were finally put in rehearsal and a
collection was to be made after the performance.
Madame de Gandry threw herself into the undertaking with the most
commendable ardor. She was on intimate terms with the leading spirits
at the Villa Medici--the French Academy of Arts at Rome--and she
interested herself in the painting of the scenes, and in the artistic
designing of the dresses in which she proved invaluable. Up to a
certain point all went smoothly. The operetta--an unpublished effort of
course--by a Russian amateur of rank who was very proud of not even
knowing his notes, was soon cast. It needed only three performers and
led up to the introduction of an elaborate masquerade and of certain
suggestive French songs. Mrs. Ferguson, who never let slip an
opportunity of powdering her hair and sticking on patches, was to sing
the soprano part; Crespigny took that of a husband or a guardian in a
nightcap or flowered dressing-gown, and a young French painter, M.
Barillat, who was at all times equally ready to sketch or to wear a
becoming costume, was to fill that of the lover. The cast of the little
French play was equally satisfactory; but when the arrangement of the
tableaux came to be considered difficulties arose. In the first place
all the ladies were eager to display their charms under the becoming
light of a tableau vivant; and the number of volunteers was quite
bewildering to the committee of management that met every day at the
Ilsenberghs' house. Then squabbles and dissatisfaction arose; the
ladies did not approve of the choice of subjects, they thought their
dresses unbecoming, their positions disadvantageous; each one to whom a
place at the side was assigned was deeply aggrieved; an unappreciated
beauty who prided herself on her profile from the left would not for
worlds be seen from the right, etc., etc. And above all--an insuperable
difficulty--almost all the available men of the set manifested the
greatest objection to'making themselves ridiculous' and positively
rejected the most flattering blandishments of the ladies' committee.
Sempaly, who had been asked to appear as a Roman emperor, would not
hear of putting on flesh-colored tights and a wreath of vine; and Truyn
had shrugged his shoulders at the proposal that he should don a wig
with long curls.
Siegburg--little Siegburg, as he was always called, though he was
nearly six feet high--after defending himself with considerable humor,
good-naturedly agreed to stand as _Pierrot_, in a Watteau scene in
which the Vulpini children were to appear; and Sterzl, being personally
requested by his ambassador, submitted, though with an ill grace, to be
the executioner in Delaroche's picture of Lady Jane Grey. This tableau
was to be the crowning glory of the performance; Barillat had taken
infinitely more pains with it than with any other; the part of Lady
Jane was to be filled by a fair English girl, Lady Henrietta Stair; and
then, within a few days of the performance, Lady Henrietta fell ill of
the
|
flour and made into round,
flat, thin cakes. Then it was baked in a queer kind of an oven shaped
like a big jar with a wide mouth.
Besides these hot cakes, there was to be the "guest-rice," all swimming
in melted butter. There was goat's meat, too, of which the Arabs are
very fond; but which we would think a little strong to eat often. Curds
made of camel's milk were a special feature, and many kinds of soft
white cheeses, as well as dates, grapes, and pomegranates.
All these things were put on a great brass tray, which was placed on
a low table in the centre of the tent. Every one sat closely around
the table, and all said "_Bismillah_" before eating, which is the
Mohammedan way of saying grace.
Al-Abukar helped himself first; and then put a choice bit into his
friend's mouth. Then every one began to dip into the dishes with their
fingers, because there were no knives or forks or separate plates. They
all ate with a good appetite, for there is nothing like the desert air
to give one a good appetite.
Zubaydah waited on the guests herself, and afterwards ate with the
children, who meantime had been simply looking on.
After the meal was over, they all sat around in a cool corner of the
tent, the men smoking their great pipes again. Hamid could not keep his
eyes off the beautiful sword and the brace of fine pistols with their
red cords, which belonged to his father's friend. They were the most
beautiful things he had ever seen, he thought.
Hamid had not a bit of the shyness which Eastern children usually
have, for the Arab children are taught from their earliest days always
to be independent; and their elders talk with them and encourage them
to ask questions. This is a part of their education.
[Illustration: A SCHOOL IN MODENA.]
So Hamid was told all about Medina and the doings of the great city;
and his father's friend took off his great sword that Hamid might
fasten it at his own waist.
"Some day I shall have a sword just like that," said Hamid, as he
handed it back, after having marched around the tent with it dragging
on the ground behind him. Rashid lay on the soft cushions and laughed,
still too tired to get up and rush about as Hamid was doing.
Rashid's father, the Sharif, had brought a gift of a beautiful chased
dagger of Damascus steel for Al-Abukar.
"It is indeed a beautiful weapon," said Hamid's father, feeling its
polished blade with careful fingers. No gift could possibly please
an Arab more than a good weapon, and he thanked his friend from the
city again and again.
"Here is also a toy from the bazaar that I have brought thy son," said
the Sharif. "See," he continued, "it is a toy camel with a strange
device inside its body by which it moves its head and legs. 'Tis one
of those strange mechanical toys that are the work of infidels in a
foreign land, but all the same none the less wonderful for that." (The
Mohammedans call all the people of other faiths infidels.)
"Nay, one needs no toys from the town," said Hamid, proudly. "We play
with live camels and horses and chase the wild beasts across the
desert."
We would think it very rude indeed of a little boy to speak thus; but
instead of scolding Hamid, they praised him; and the Sharif said,
smilingly, "Truly thou art one of the'sons of fight.'" That is what
the word Beni-Harb, the name of their tribe, means in the Arabic
language.
This is the true Arab spirit; and children are taught to scorn childish
things so that they may the sooner become hardy and brave in any kind
of danger. It is really very funny to see the little boys act and talk
as if they were already grown men like their fathers; and they would
much rather play with swords and pistols any day than with toys.
"Indeed thou art a little fighting hawk. May Allah grant that the sweet
wind of the desert put strength into the limbs of my son," continued
Al-Abukar's guest, looking sorrowfully at little Rashid's pale cheeks
as he lay on his cushions.
"He is a little better already," said Zubaydah, kindly, as she gave
little Fatimah a censer of burning musk to swing before her guests,
that they might enjoy the smell of sweet perfumes after the meal.
"I will show you my falcons if you are not too tired," said Hamid,
anxious to amuse his little friend.
"Oh, indeed I am not tired. Where are they?" cried Rashid, jumping up
and forgetting all about his long ride.
Hamid led his little guest out among the great palm-trees and past a
great many tents to a sort of mud hut thatched with palm leaves.
"How are the birds to-day?" asked Hamid of a man who was sitting in
front of the hut, while two fine greyhounds lay beside him. "I have
brought a little friend with me who will hunt with the falcons some
day."
"May it be soon," said the thin, wiry Bedouin, rising and drawing the
curtain of the hut. "The old ones are impatient to be flung to the
wind, and I would teach the young ones something more."
This man was Awad, the old falconer, the man who trains falcons, who
was only too proud to show off his household of fine birds. These
hawk-like birds, called falcons, are great hunters of small game; and
can be trained to hunt for their masters, just as one can train a dog.
The falcon drops down on its prey from above, in a swift, straight
line, and buries its sharp claws in its back, often killing it before
its master comes up.
Hamid showed Rashid how he could make his two handsome falcons come and
sit on his wrist and obey him. He could throw them off into the air,
and they would come back to him when he whistled.
"Some day when thou art stronger, we will go out with the falcons,"
said Hamid, as he put the birds back on their perch.
When they left the hut, they saw Fatimah running toward them, a dear
little gazelle bounding along by her side.
"Isn't she beautiful?" said Fatimah, as Rashid stroked the gazelle's
dainty head. "I think falcons are cruel because they chase these pretty
creatures. My little pet was caught by the falcons; and, when father
brought her home, I begged him to give her to me for a playmate. Now,
more than ever, I do not like to have the falcons chase these dear,
gentle little animals." Then she put her arms around the gazelle's neck
and hugged it.
When the children went back to the tent, they found that the older folk
had had their siesta, or midday sleep, and were now sitting in front of
the tent.
Zubaydah had the supper-tray brought out to the children; and, when
they had again eaten, while the men were sitting around smoking their
perfumed water-pipes, the full moon came up over the ridge and made it
almost as light as day; for the moonlight of the desert seems brighter
than moonlight anywhere else because the air is so clear.
Now they all began to tell stories and recite poetry, of which the
Arabs are very fond. The Arab loves to hear and to tell stories about
the great deeds of their people in the past, and to recite beautiful
poems in praise of the glories of many years ago.
Finally Fatimah brought out her lute, a queer little instrument with
only one string, which did not make much music. But the song was very
pretty, and Fatimah sang it very sweetly:
"Oh, take these purple robes away,
Give back my cloak of camel's hair,
And bear me from this tow'ring pile
To where the 'Black Tents' flap the air.
"The camel's colt with falt'ring tread,
The dog that bays at all but me,
Delight me more than ambling mules--
Than every art of minstrelsy."
After the song, Rashid and Hamid rolled themselves up in warm blankets
in a corner of the big tent and were soon asleep. So ended Rashid's
first day in the "Black Tents."
CHAPTER II
HAMID AND RASHID AT PLAY
WHEN little Rashid woke up the next morning, he rubbed his eyes and
for a moment wondered if he was dreaming. It seemed so strange to find
himself lying in the corner of the big tent instead of in his own room,
with his pet doves cooing at his window.
But instead of doves, what he heard was the neighing and stamping of
horses, and the calls of the men driving the camels out to pasture. As
he turned his head, he found Hamid's mother standing beside him with a
bowl in her hand.
"Here is warm milk from the camel," she said, with a smile, "to make
thee well and redden thy cheeks. Hasten to drink it while it is warm.
There is water in yonder basin with which to wash," she added.
Rashid was up in a minute, and dashed the water over his face and
hands. Then he made his prayer like a good little Mohammedan that he
was, for he must do this before eating.
"I never tasted anything nicer than that," said he, as he finished his
bowl of milk.
"'Tis good for thee to be hungry, for it means that thou art already
better," said little Fatimah, wisely, giving him a piece of the cake
which had been baked the night before. She had brought in her bowl to
keep him company at his breakfast.
"Where is Hamid?" asked Rashid, looking around for his little friend.
"He has been in and out many times; but I would not let him waken you,"
said Zubaydah.
"He is full of a secret that he will not tell me," spoke up Fatimah, in
rather a hurt voice.
Just then Hamid poked his head in behind the curtain of the tent in a
great state of excitement.
"Come, Rashid," he said, "and tell me what thou findest here."
Rashid ran at once out from the tent, and there stood a fine little
blooded Arabian horse, all saddled and bridled.
"Oh, what a beautiful little horse!" exclaimed Rashid.
"She only waits for her master," said a voice behind him, and he turned
to find Al-Abukar smiling gravely.
"The horse is thine," he said. "She will also help to bring strength
to thy limbs, and will carry thee like the wind across the plains and
hills."
Little Rashid was so astonished and happy that he could not find
words with which to thank his kind friend for his gift, but he kissed
his hand and stammered out something. Then he threw his arms about
the pony's arched neck and patted her delicate little nose. Oh, how
beautiful he thought the handsome red saddle and bridle, with their
silver buckles and red tassels! There is no gift that pleases a little
Arab boy so much as a fine pony.
"Is she not a queen?" said Hamid, who was as much pleased as his little
friend. "I rode with father to the tents of the great Sheik, where one
finds the best and swiftest horses; and I helped to pick her out from
dozens of other ponies. She belongs to one of the five great families,
does she not, father?"
Hamid, like all little Arab boys, had been taught to love horses, and
to know the history of the great breeds of Arabia as well as he did
that of his own tribe.
"Oh, she knows me already!" exclaimed Rashid, with delight, as the pony
rubbed her little nose against his arm.
"She looks lovely and haughty, like a little Sultanah," he continued.
"What shall you call her?" asked Fatimah, who was giving the pony a bit
of her cake to nibble.
"I will call her 'Sultanah,'" said Rashid, as he clapped his hands; and
everybody agreed that the little horse could not have a better name.
"Now you must feed her, Rashid, so that she will know that she belongs
to you," said Hamid. "I will get some of the date bread." He ran back
quickly into the tent, and was back again in a moment with a brown,
sticky mass in his hand, a kind of paste made of dried dates. This
Rashid fed to Sultanah, who seemed to enjoy it very much.
"You must sometimes feed her meat, too; that will make her strong and
swift," added Hamid, who was proud indeed to be able to show that he
knew all about Arabian ponies.
"Our cousin who lives near the sea gives his horses dried fish to eat,"
said Rashid.
"That may be well enough for some horses," replied Hamid, "but I give
Zuleika dates and milk and cakes. She eats what her master does. Do you
not, my beauty?" he said, stroking Zuleika, who had just strolled up to
make friends with the newcomer.
Nothing would do but that Rashid must have a ride at once; so Hamid
saddled his pony, too, and away went the two boys cantering swift and
sure in the morning sunlight.
"We will pass by the _madressah_, and let the boys see how fine we
are," said Hamid.
The _madressah_ was a low shed made of palm-branches where the little
Bedouin boys and girls went to school; for even in the desert the
children must study their lessons.
When Hamid and Rashid rode up, a number of children were sitting around
on the ground, singing out their recitations at the top of their
voices, while the school-mistress sat outside sewing.
But they forgot all about their lessons when they spied the new boy,
and ran out to greet Rashid and ask him all sorts of questions; and
they patted and praised Sultanah and picked out her good points in a
very knowing way.
"Oh, thou truant!" said the school-mistress to Hamid, "why art thou not
at thy lessons? Always thou hast thy head filled with other things than
thy books."
"Nay, teacher, be not cross; to-morrow we will both come; and you will
see that I shall bring you a new pupil," said Hamid, as he and Rashid
rode away.
"Here is the place where the ponies are kept," said Hamid, riding up to
one side of their tent. The boys jumped off their horses and began to
unsaddle.
"We will fasten Sultanah, for she is strange yet to her new home," said
Hamid, tying the pony's halter to one of the tent ropes. "But Zuleika
would never wander from this spot where I place her until I bid her.
She will never let any one touch her but me; and, if a stranger tried
to mount her, he would soon find himself lying in the dust.
"Zuleika does everything but talk," Hamid went on, for he loved his
horse as if she were one of the family. "Sometimes, when the nights are
cold, she will come around to the tent curtain and put her head inside
and neigh, and then I let her come inside and stand by the fire."
"Now we will make '_kayf_' for awhile; for thou hast rushed about
enough for one hot morning," said Hamid, throwing his saddle in one
corner of the big tent.
Making "_kayf_" is just a little Arab boy's way of having a good time
doing nothing at all but lying on a rug in a cool corner of a tent, or
sitting in the shade of a palm-tree.
Rashid was not sorry to rest after the excitement of the morning, so he
curled up on one of the mats and was fast asleep in a minute.
"Thou hast promised to show me the young camels," whispered Rashid when
Hamid had finished pounding the coffee after the midday meal.
"Come now, then," said Hamid. "Nassar-Ben and his men guard the
camel-colts down by the stream."
The two boys went in and out among the brown tents, jumping over the
tent ropes rather than taking the trouble to go around, until they
found the big herd of camels with a number of baby camels. They were
in the river valley, where there was a good crop of coarse, high grass
called camel-grass, because it is so coarse that nothing but a camel
could eat it.
It was a great herd of camels, some of them eating of the grass and
others lying down in the shade; and all around were frisking numbers
of little baby camels.
Hamid's father was a Sheik, or captain of a tribe of Bedouins, the
real desert tribes of Arabs, who live only in tents in an oasis of the
desert.
They had pitched their tents in this particular spot because of its
being a very suitable one in which to pasture their camels. The sole
wealth of a Bedouin is his flocks and herds and his horse and his
firearms; and, of course, his tent and his few simple belongings.
Some of the Sheiks raise horses, others sheep, and others camels. The
people of Hamid's tribe lived by raising and selling camels to their
neighbours who did not raise them, or to the merchants in the cities
and towns.
"Don't baby camels look as if they would break in two?" said Rashid, as
they came up to a group of young camels, "their legs are so long and
thin."
"Father is going to take some of the colts to sell to the great Sheik
who has the fine horses. Perhaps he will let us go with him," said
Hamid. "I heard Nassar-Ben tell him last night that the young camels
were now strong enough for the journey.
"Nassar-Ben is our camel-sheik; and he and his men guard the herd.
There he sits in the shadow of the tent, and those are his children
scrambling around and playing on that old camel's back," continued
Hamid, bound that his little friend should know all about everything.
"Wait, oh, babies! I can mount quicker than that," shouted Hamid to
Nassar-Ben's children, who were amusing themselves climbing over the
back of one of the old camels.
"Look! This is the way to mount a camel," said Hamid, as he climbed
up one of the legs of a big camel as if it were a tree-trunk; and,
finally, throwing his leg over the beast's neck, he was soon perched
on the hump in the middle of the camel's back.
"Come up, come up, that's the stairway!" he called to Rashid.
"Oh, I daren't," cried poor little Rashid, slipping back as he tried to
hold on to the camel's rusty knee.
"You will learn in time, my little master," said Nassar-Ben, lifting
him up beside Hamid. Then all the other little children swarmed up the
old camel's legs; and, when the camel man gave her a blow with a stick,
away she went, the children laughing and holding on to each other to
keep from slipping off. Suddenly the old camel wheeled around and
started back at a gallop. Little Rashid had ridden on a camel before,
but never on a bare-back camel in that fashion. The first thing he knew
he was lying in the dust, together with one of the little Bedouin boys,
whom he had pulled off with him as he fell.
[Illustration: IN THE BLACK TENTS.]
"Oh!" said the little boy, half-crying, "you made me fall off on
purpose!" He felt so badly that he, one of the boys of the camel-sheik,
should have been seen to fall from a camel that he began to thump
Rashid as hard as he could.
"Fie! for shame!" cried Hamid, rushing up to them as he jumped down
from the camel. "Is this the way to treat a stranger and a guest in our
tents?"
The little boy stopped at once and hung his head, looking very much
ashamed; for he knew how wrong it was to be rude to a guest.
"This greenhorn from the town made me fall, and they jeered at me," he
said, sulkily.
"Nay, but I did not mean to pull you off," said Rashid; "thou must
blame the steep hump of the camel." He looked so sorry that the little
fellow stopped frowning at once. They made friends again, and all ran
back for another ride on the camel, while Rashid made up his mind
that he would learn to climb and mount a camel all by himself.
After a few days, Rashid's father had to go home, and Rashid had quite
a lump in his throat as he sat on Sultanah one morning and watched his
father's little caravan pass out of sight over the ridge. He would not
have cried for anything, however; and, when he thought of his good
friends here in the "Black Tents" and his little pony and the good
times he was to have, he felt better.
What with drinking camel's milk and galloping over the plain on
Sultanah's back, Rashid soon began to grow strong and well. His little
white face changed to a healthy brown colour.
Rashid and Hamid helped the falconer look after his birds, and Awad,
their keeper, showed them how to train a falcon oneself.
One day as the boys were sitting under the shadow of a group of big
palm-trees playing a sort of "jack-straw" game with date seeds for
stones, Rashid suddenly exclaimed: "What can that be?" A sudden flash
of light had made his eyes blink, and straightway there was another.
"Who is playing tricks?" said Hamid, looking around. Then they heard
a low laugh, and there was Fatimah behind a tree, holding a little
looking-glass in her hand so that it would flash a ray of sunlight
right in the boys' eyes.
"Oh, you monkey! Where did you get that glass, and who is this
stranger?" asked Hamid; for he had just spied another little girl's
head peeping over Fatimah's shoulder.
"There is a merchant at the great tent. He is Hajj and this is his
little granddaughter; and, oh! he has such beautiful things to sell,
mirrors like this and silks and jewelry and--but you should see them
yourselves!" said Fatimah without stopping for breath.
Hamid did not need to be told the second time. It was a great event in
the lives of the desert children whenever a travelling merchant came;
for this was the only chance they ever had to buy anything whatever
known to the town dwellers.
The children found the old merchant opening up his saddle-bags and
spreading his wares on a rug in front of the tent, while everybody
crowded around to look at the velvet purses, the silk veils, and
trinkets of all kinds as well as weapons and firearms which he
displayed.
What caught Hamid's eyes first were the long pistols with funny curved
handles set with mother-of-pearl and silver.
"Oh, father!" he said, "thou hast promised me a new pistol! You
remember; it was when I shot to the centre of the mark a month ago."
"Ah, thou hast a good memory; but thy mother wants a silken veil and
Fatimah some gewgaws," said old Al-Abukar.
"Here is a fine pistol which will just suit the little Sheik," said
the old merchant, taking from his own belt a fine weapon, all set with
pearl and silver. "This was made for the son of a great prince; but it
came to me in the course of trade and it is a gift that will make the
boy glad."
"Oh, father! What a beautiful weapon! It will be a long time before one
sees such another," exclaimed Hamid, as he handled the weapon lovingly.
"Ah, well," said his father, "a promise is a promise; and one might as
well spend the money now as at another time." Then he began to unroll
the long sash around his waist, so that he could get at his leather
belt in which he kept his money.
Wasn't Hamid a proud boy when he stuck the pistol in his sash and
strolled up and down in front of the other boys. They were all
envious, too, in a proper way; for it was not every one who could carry
a pistol made for a prince.
"Now let us see what thy new pistol will do," said Al-Abukar, taking a
coin from his pouch, and, through a hole in it, attaching a string and
suspending it from the end of a pole which projected from one side of
the tent. He paced backwards a short distance, and told Hamid to stand
on that spot and shoot at the string which held the coin and try to cut
it with the bullet from his pistol.
"Oh, father, thou hast given me a hard task," said Hamid, as he took
his place and began to load his pistol.
"So much the more honour to you if you do it well, then," replied his
father. "Aim carefully and not too high," he continued.
Hamid shot at the coin several times, but with no luck.
"Let Rashid try his skill," said Al-Abukar.
Rashid's hand shook as he took aim, and his first shot went wild; but
his second just grazed the coin and sent it swinging to and fro like a
pendulum.
"Well done! oh, son of the city!" cried out the children from the other
tents, who had crowded around to watch the shooting.
Their praise pleased Rashid, for he had practised hard with Hamid at
shooting at a mark since he had been in the desert.
"I will do it this time," said Hamid, as he set his teeth. Again,
however, he only sent the dust flying about an astonished camel, who
just at that moment poked his inquisitive nose out from behind the tent.
"Enough powder and shot has been wasted for one day," said Al-Abukar,
raising his pistol; "we will take the coin down." Then, firing at the
cord with a sure and steady aim, he cut it as if with a knife.
"It is not the fault of the new pistol," said Al-Abukar, smiling at
Hamid, who looked very disappointed. "Never mind, thou wilt succeed
better another time," he added.
CHAPTER III
THE ROBBER BAND AND AN OSTRICH HUNT
MEANTIME Fatimah was making friends with Nawara, the old merchant's
little granddaughter. She was a wild, shy little girl, wearing a dark
blue cotton dress, a mass of tangled black hair hanging down on her
shoulders. The hot sun and the wind had burnt her face almost black.
She was telling Fatimah of her long journeys with her grandfather.
"Thou art a great traveller," said Fatimah, looking at the little girl
in round-eyed wonder.
"Yes, my father and mother are dead," she said, "and, as I have no
little brothers or sisters, I go always with grandfather. He makes a
nice seat for me on top of the big bales of goods on the camel's back,
or he holds me before him on his dromedary."
"And art thou never afraid?" asked Fatimah.
"Oh, no! Sometimes, though, at night, when I hear the jackals howling
near our tent, I pull the rug up over my head. But when we come to the
'Black Tents' every one is so kind. I find many little playmates; and
often they want me to stay with them. Grandfather would miss me sadly
if I did," said Nawara, with an important air. "When we halt I always
gather the dry thorns and make the fire, and melt the milk balls to
make a cool drink while the cakes are cooking," she went on.
"Thou art indeed quite a little woman," said Fatimah's mother, smiling
at the little girl's talk.
"'Tis good to be here," said the merchant, after his other customers
had gone and the family had gathered for the evening meal in front of
the tent. "We came a long, weary way to-day. I feared to stop by the
road, for there was talk of robbers hiding in the hills, and a party of
travellers had been attacked by them a few days ago."
"Perhaps we will see them to-morrow, father, and then I will have a
chance to use my new pistol," spoke up Hamid, eagerly.
"The rascals give no one a chance to see them. They keep themselves
safely hid behind the rocks, and fire upon the peaceful traveller
before he is aware that they are there," the merchant replied.
"It is their way," said Al-Abukar. "I would not hasten thy going," he
continued; "but if thou wilt join our party we will ride together as
far as the tents of our friends. It will be safer for thee and the
little one as well as thy goods," said the Sheik.
So it was arranged that the old merchant and Nawara should start out
with them the next day.
Hamid and Rashid lay awake half the night, planning what they would do
if they met the robbers; and they were up and had saddled their horses
while it was yet starlight, so as to get a good start before the heat
of the day came down upon them.
The camel men were ready with the camels tied together in a long line,
one behind the other, so that they might not stray apart.
The old merchant seated himself cross-legged on his dromedary, which is
much like a camel except that it is swifter and has two humps on its
back instead of one.
"Thou hast been very kind," said little Nawara, putting her arms around
Fatimah and kissing her as they were leaving.
"Thou wilt come again some day, perhaps," said Zubaydah, the mother.
"Meantime here is something to keep thee from having to cook the
midday meal," she said, as she stuffed some fresh dates and cakes into
the food-bags.
Now the men started the camels, Al-Abukar and the boys swung themselves
into their saddles, and away they galloped.
Hamid looked very fine indeed, for a little Bedouin boy likes to look
at his best when he is making his first visit. He had put on his long
white cloak of camel's-hair cloth, and thrown over his white cap a silk
cloth like a large handkerchief with long red tassels at the corners.
This was held on by a cord of brown wool wound round and round his
head. In the broad silken sash at his waist was stuck a small dagger
with a curved blade and of course the new pistol, and his jacket was
embroidered with a silver thread.
Rashid, too, was dressed in Bedouin style; and each of the boys carried
a spear, while they had polished as brightly as possible the silver
buckles and ornaments on their bridles and saddles. To the boys' great
disappointment nothing happened and they reached the tents of their
friends safely enough. Here they spent three happy days.
While Al-Abukar and his friend the Sheik bargained over the prices of
the colts, Hamid and Rashid played with the children of the encampment,
riding races on horseback and having a good time generally. Indeed they
were sorry when they came to say good-bye, and turned their horses'
heads homewards.
"I don't believe there are any robbers, after all," said Rashid to
Hamid, as they were riding back together a little ahead of the party.
"They are only men from the mountains, anyway," said Hamid, with a toss
of his head, a Bedouin's way of saying he didn't think much of their
bravery.
"Some of them are courageous enough," said one of the camel men who had
just come up behind them; "and this is just the sort of a place they
would choose to lurk in," he continued, looking carefully about him as
they entered a ravine between the hills.
Just as the camel man had finished speaking, Hamid looked up and saw a
curl of white smoke coming out from behind a rock on the hillside above
them.
"Down!" cried Hamid, pushing Rashid forward on his pony's neck and at
the same time throwing himself flat on Zuleika's neck just as a bullet
went whizzing over their heads.
"'Tis they! the rascals! They are skulking behind the rocks, and will
not come out and fight in the open like brave men," cried Al-Abukar,
galloping up furiously and sending a shot back in the direction from
which they had been attacked.
"Give your horses their rein, boys, and ride on as fast as ever you
can. These worthless fellows will have no horses that can overtake
yours. I will teach the brigands what it means to fire on a Bedouin
chief." So saying, Al-Abukar dashed straight up the rocky side of the
ravine.
"I will not flee! I will follow you, father!" cried Hamid, spurring
Zuleika on close behind his father's horse. Rashid followed, not
knowing what might happen, but determined to stay by Hamid at any cost.
The horses needed no spur, for the sound of the shot had made them
wild, and they bounded up the steep rocky trail like gazelles.
The band of robbers were so taken aback at this sudden return of their
attack that they fled without a parting shot, but not before Al-Abukar
had captured their chief.
"Aha! Thy beard is now in my grasp," said Al-Abukar to the robber
chief, as he and his men fastened their prisoner on the back of one of
the camels.
"Thou didst not think any one could reach thee on that steep
mountainside, but thou didst not reckon on the mettle of the horses of
our tribe."
"Look you," said the camel man, as he rode up alongside the boys again,
"it was a good thing that you sheltered yourselves behind your horses'
necks. Here, Rashid, is the hole of the bullet right through this
head-kerchief of yours, and if you had not pulled your little friend
down on to his horse's neck as you were riding beside him, Hamid, the
bullet would certainly have gone straight through his head."
"Oh, Hamid, you have saved my life," said Rashid, turning pale for the
first time. He had been too much excited before to be frightened.
"He only did his duty to his friend," Al-Abukar replied, gravely; but
Hamid saw by his look that he was proud of his son. He sat up a little
straighter in his saddle and felt that he had grown at least a couple
of inches taller during the morning.
"Thou hast disobeyed me, child, but I cannot scold thee," continued
his father; "for you and Rashid both followed me like brave little sons
of the desert."
"But, father!" said Hamid, clutching at Zuleika's rein, suddenly,
"I forgot all about firing my new pistol!" At this they all laughed
heartily.
"Never mind," said his father; "I am sorry to say there are still many
robbers left, and that you may yet have a chance to use it."
When they rode up to the tents with their prisoner, the robber chief,
every one hurrahed; and the mother and Fatimah had, of course, to hear
all about the adventures at once.
"Shall we go out to-day, my young masters, and see if we can bring home
some hares for our dinner, or perhaps catch a grouse or two?" asked
Awad, the falconer, when Hamid and Rashid came to look at the birds on
the morning after the adventure with the robbers.
"Yes, indeed!" cried both the boys in one breath; and it was not long
before they were speeding over the plain beside Awad, with the two
greyhounds leaping along after them.
Awad carried his falcon, and Hamid had his own bird, too, perched on
his wrist. Every now and then the boys, out of sheer fun, would throw
their spears up in the air and catch them again as they were riding
furiously across the plain. This is quite a feat, as you may imagine,
when one is riding at full speed, but Hamid could do it easily. His
spear was a long bamboo cane with a
|
]
Report of the Council on Pharmacy and Chemistry
[A] See also Labordine, p. 115; Headache Cures, p. 305; Anadol, p. 244;
Phenalgin, 335.
_To the Council on Pharmacy and Chemistry_:
In response to the request of your chairman we have investigated the
below-mentioned preparations and report as follows:
Specimens of the articles were bought in different cities in the open
market, and in original sealed packages, and were analyzed by some of
us or under our direction. Each article was examined by at least two
chemists, and some were subjected to several analyses. While certain
of the preparations are represented as being chemical compounds,
the specimens examined were all found to be mixtures, the principal
ingredient being acetanilid. The percentage proportions of acetanilid
given below are the minimum obtained by any of the analysts.
Soda and ammonia, combined with carbonic acid, are calculated and
reported as sodium bicarbonate and as ammonium carbonate (U. S. P.)
respectively. Salicylic acid is calculated and reported as sodium
salicylate. Diluents and other constituents than those reported were
not determined.
AMMONOL
According to the analyses of the contents of the original sealed
packages as purchased, this was found to be a mixture, and to contain
the following ingredients approximately in the proportions given:
Acetanilid. Sodium Bicarb. Ammonium Carb.
50. 25. 20.
ANTIKAMNIA[B]
[B] See also Antikamnia, The Nostrum and Its Method of Exploitation,
page 268.
According to the analyses of the contents of the original sealed
packages as purchased, this was found to be a mixture, and to contain
the following ingredients approximately in the proportions given:
Acetanilid Caffein Citric Acid Sodium Bicarb.
68. 5. 5. 20.
KOEHLER’S HEADACHE POWDERS
According to the analyses of the contents of the original sealed
packages as purchased, this was found to be a mixture, and to contain
the following ingredients approximately in the proportions given:
Acetanilid Caffein
76. 22.
ORANGEINE
According to the analyses of the contents of the original sealed
packages as purchased, this was found to be a mixture, and to contain
the following ingredients approximately in the proportions given:
Acetanilid Sodium Bicarb. Caffein
43. 18. 10.
Other constituents said to be present were not determined.
PHENALGIN[C]
[C] See also Phenalgin--A Typical Example, p. 335.
According to the analyses of the contents of the original sealed
packages as purchased, this was found to be a mixture, and to contain
the following ingredients approximately in the proportions given:
Acetanilid Sodium Bicarb. Ammonium Carb.
57. 29. 10.
Certain packages of phenalgin were purchased which on analysis did not
show ammonium carbonate.
SALACETIN[D]
[D] See also Salacetin, p. 356.
According to the analyses of the contents of the original sealed
packages as purchased, this was found to be a mixture, and to contain
the following ingredients approximately in the proportions given:
Acetanilid Sodium Bicarb. Sodium Salicylate
43. 21. 20.
We recommend that this report be printed in The Journal of the American
Medical Association.
Respectfully submitted,
J. H. Long, M.S., Sc.D., }
W. A. Puckner, Ph.G., } Committee on Chemistry,
S. P. Sadtler, Ph.D., } Council on Pharmacy and
J. Stieglitz, Ph.D., } Chemistry of the A. M. A.
H. W. Wiley, M.D., Ph.D., }
(_From The Journal A. M. A., June 3, 1905_).
AGAR-LAC
Report of the Council on Pharmacy and Chemistry
Agar-lac, said to be the product of “Agar-lac, Inc.,” is sold by E.
Fougera and Company, New York. The following “formula” for Agar-lac is
published:
“Agar-Agar with Lactic Ferments Grs. 4-1/2
Phenolphthalein Grs. 1/2”
Regarding the “lactic ferment,” the identity of which is not declared by
the manufacturer and for the viability of which no precautions appear
to be taken, the Council’s expert on lactic acid ferments reported that
_Bacillus bulgaricus_ was present in small numbers only and that there
were at least two other bacteria present, one of which is a gas-former
of the _Bacillus coli_ type.
The Council found that the amount of agar-agar in Agar-lac and
the identity of the “lactic ferment” are not declared; that the
name “Agar-lac” is blown in the glass and that the method of its
exploitation will lead laymen to use it to their detriment; that the
claims that it “facilitates assimilation of proteids” and that it is
of value as an aid to “gastro-intestinal digestion” give a false value
to the mixture and that the claims emphasize the action of agar-agar
when from the composition it is evident that the phenolphthalein action
will predominate; that the name does not indicate its predominating
constituent, phenolphthalein, and that the use of a ready-made
combination of cathartic drugs, such as agar-agar and phenolphthalein
with lactic acid ferments, is unscientific. The Council therefore
refused recognition to Agar-lac.--(_From The Journal A. M. A., Nov. 14,
1914._)
ANASARCIN AND ANEDEMIN
Reports of the Council on Pharmacy and Chemistry and Comments Thereon
The following reports were submitted to the Council by the subcommittee
to which these articles were assigned:
ANASARCIN
_To the Council on Pharmacy and Chemistry_:--Your subcommittee to
whom Anasarcin (Anasarcin Chemical Co., Winchester, Tenn.) was
assigned, herewith submits its report:
This remedy is offered in two forms: “Anasarcin Tablets,” a pretended
combination of the active principles of oxydendron arboreum, sambucus
canadensis, and urginea scilla; and “Anasarcin Elixir,” said to
contain the active principles of oxydendron, sambucus, hepatica and
potassium nitrate. The advertisements of these articles conflict with
the rules of the Council as follows:
With Rules 1 and 2: The composition of these articles is kept secret,
in that the proportion of the ingredients is not furnished. The
statement that it contains the “active principles” is misleading,
since these are for the most part unknown.
With Rule 6: The description of the pharmacologic action of Anasarcin
agrees practically with that of squill. No material part of its
effects can be attributed to the other ingredients. Nevertheless, the
advertisement studiously cultivates the impression that Anasarcin
has no relation whatever to the digitalis group in which scilla is
commonly placed. The claims are therefore misleading. The claim
of its infinite superiority to digitalis, the claims that it cures
neurasthenia, eliminates uric acid in rheumatism, and is useful in
obesity, cystitis, lumbago and eclampsia, dyspepsia and asthma, and
that it works wonders in exophthalmic goiter, appear exaggerated or
false.
The recommendation of its indiscriminate use in nephritis, for
lowering the blood-pressure and the statement (contradicted in the
firm’s own literature) that it is not depressing, are actually
dangerous.
It is recommended that the articles be refused recognition, and that
the report, with explanations, be published.
ANEDEMIN
_To the Council_:--Your subcommittee to whom Anedemin (Anedemin
Chemical Co., Winchester, Tenn.) was assigned herewith submits its
report:
Anedemin is an evident imitation of Anasarcin. It is marketed
as tablets, said to contain the isolated active principles of
strophanthus, apocynum, squill and sambucus, chemically combined.
The quantities are not stated. The therapeutic claims are copied
almost literally from the Anasarcin circulars and are equally false.
Anedemin, therefore, conflicts with Rules 1, 5, 6 and 7.
It is recommended that this report be published, with comments.
The reports were adopted by the Council and are herewith published.
W. A. Puckner, Secretary.
Anasarcin
This wonderful remedy, Anasarcin, has already been exposed in these
columns (The Journal A. M. A., Jan. 27, 1906), but it deserves
additional mention, as it teaches several important lessons of general
application. It is a typical example of the revival, under a new name
and a thin disguise, of an old, time-worn article, squill, presumably
because experience has demonstrated its general inferiority to other
drugs. Anasarcin further illustrates the dangers involved in the use
of semi-secret nostrums. It also shows how a short experience with
a widely advertised but little understood drug is apt to lead to
conclusions which more extensive experience demonstrates to be entirely
fallacious.
The first lesson is, that formulas are not always what they seem. A
hasty glance at the formula of Anasarcin tablets, the basis of the
Anasarcin dropsy cure, creates the impression that it is a non-secret
remedy; for it is said to represent a combination of the active
principles of oxydendron, sambucus and scilla. As a matter of fact,
it is a secret nostrum of the insidious kind. A formula which omits
the quantities of its potent ingredients means very little. Further
than this, we do not hesitate to charge that the claimed composition
is a deliberate deception. The circulars emphasize the claim that
Anasarcin consists of the _isolated principles_, and not of the crude
drugs. Now, the isolated active principles of sambucus and oxydendron
are not on the market, for the good and sufficient reason that no
active principles have ever been isolated. Are we to believe that
the Anasarcin Company has surpassed the accredited chemists and has
discovered such principles and is isolating them? We shall have more
to say on this subject presently; but any one in the least familiar
with the difficulties attending the isolation of organic principles
knows such an idea to be preposterous. Indeed, it is absolutely
incompatible with the exhibition of ignorance of the elementary facts
of pharmaceutical chemistry which is given by these people when they
call the active principles of digitalis and squill “alkaloids.”
It is an axiom that the effects of a mixture can only be understood
if the action of its components are known. So far as we know, the
physiologic effects of oxydendron and sambucus have never been
scientifically investigated, for the simple reason that they are too
slight and indefinite to promise results. Both are credited with some
slight, obscure diuretic action. Oxydendron, the sour wood or sorrel
tree, is a small tree of the heath family, the acid leaves of which
are said to be chewed by hunters for their pleasant taste and for the
relief of thirst. Sambucus is the common elder. It is most unlikely
that these two innocuous substances should play any part in the claimed
powerful effect of Anasarcin; they are evidently put in the formula,
we do not say in the preparation, to obscure the fact that Anasarcin
is composed principally of squill. That this is so can be gathered
unmistakably from a study of the pharmacologic action of Anasarcin as
described by its promoters:
Acting primarily on the heart and arterial systems through the
nerve ganglia, a natural physiologic balance is established
between the arterial and venous systems, whereby effusions... are
eliminated.... Coincident with this action there is a noteworthy
_slowing_ of the pulse.... If the remedy is pushed, can be brought
down to 20 or 30 beats per minute.... Its physiological action
is to stimulate the cardiac motor-ganglia through the cardiac
plexus of the sympathetic system and at the same time exert an
inhibitory influence upon the cardiac fibers of the pneumogastric,
thereby dilating the arterioles, slowing the heart’s action, and
increasing the force of the systole.... The prolonged diastole
allows the ventricle time to completely fill, and the more forcible
contraction causes the mitral valve to close more thoroughly and at
the same time increases pressure in the coronary arteries, serving
thereby the double purpose of relieving pulmonary engorgement and
increasing heart nutrition.
Anasarcin will nauseate some persons.
To appreciate fully the meaning of this description of the actions of
Anasarcin, it should be compared with the effects of the digitalis
group, to which squill belongs. The following account is quoted
literally from a recent text-book of pharmacology (Sollmann):
The phenomena of the therapeutic stage of digitalis action are said
to be:
1. Slowing of the heart, with systole and diastole both lengthened.
2. Increased strength of beat, leading to greater efficiency of the
individual contractions, and to an increase in the total efficiency.
3. A tendency to the systolic phase.
4. A rise of blood-pressure, due mainly to the increased action of
the heart, but partly also to a vasoconstriction.
The therapeutic action may be explained, in part, as follows:
A larger amount of blood will be thrown into the aorta and coronary
circulation. The first effect will be an improved nutrition of the
heart.... The tonic action... narrows the ring of the valves, brings
them together, narrows the orifice.... The venous congestion will
tend to be relieved. This relief... will fall in the first place on
the lungs.... The lowering of the venous pressure will tend to cause
absorption of the effusions.
The nauseant action of squill, which is alluded to in connection with
Anasarcin, is too well known to require more than a mention.
In brief, then, it appears from the statements of the Anasarcin Company
that the action of the remedy is that of squill and that the other
ingredients are a mere blind. It is, of course, well known that squill
can be used as a substitute for digitalis in cardiac dropsy, although
it is generally considered very inferior to the latter drug. Rose
Bradford, for instance, states: “Squill is not used to any extent in
the treatment of cardiac disease and cardiac dropsy, digitalis being
a far more efficient and less toxic substance.” However, it has been
frequently observed that digitalis occasionally fails, and it may then
be replaced successfully by another member of the group. At all events,
it is very likely that squill is a fairly efficient substitute for
digitalis, especially when it is supplemented by a very free course
of Epsom salts and by potassium nitrate (the active ingredient of
Anasarcin Elixir), both of which are stated to be essential adjuvants
to the Anasarcin (or squill) tablets. There can be no objection to the
use of squill when it is indicated; but any one who wishes to use it
should do so with his eyes open, knowing what substance he is using and
how much (which he does not in Anasarcin); knowing also that it has the
same indications and limitations as digitalis. He should not be misled
by such statements as the following:
“Does what dropsy medicaments have hitherto failed to accomplish.”
“Superior to digitalis, strophanthus, scoparius, squills, acetate
of potash and the hydragogue cathartics all put together.”
“The only known relief [how modest!] and permanent cure of
dropsies.”
“Unrivaled heart tonic.” “The most powerful agent known.”
Any one wishing to use squill should take the trouble to acquaint
himself with the results obtained by competent and independent
observers, and not rely on it in eclampsia, septicemia, “vices of
civilization,” all forms of neurasthenia, as “an active eliminator of
uric acid in rheumatism,” in hepatic cirrhosis, dyspepsia, asthma,
obesity, cystitis (!), lumbago, exophthalmic goiter, etc.
He should also learn the contra-indications to the use of squill,
deducible from the fact that it causes vasoconstriction and raises
the blood-pressure (prohibiting its use in Bright’s disease and
arteriosclerosis), and that it produces marked gastric irritation,
consequently nausea and depression, that it is a very toxic agent, and
that the dangers of cumulative action must be borne in mind. In respect
to these the advertisements of the Anasarcin people are little short of
criminal, for these state:
“Safe in administration.” “Non-toxic as ordinarily administered.”
“Will nauseate some persons,” but “the reaction from the temporary
depression is prompt.” “In Bright’s disease, both the interstitial
and parenchymatous forms of nephritis, acute or chronic, no remedy
... to equal it in efficacy.” “Without increasing the debility of
the patient or interfering with nutrition by producing loss of
appetite....” “This treatment is to be continued without cessation
until all symptoms of dropsy have disappeared.”
Physicians who are inclined to disregard this warning, and who follow
the advice of the Anasarcin people, should remember that their
patients--or their friends--will put the blame for the results, which
are bound to follow sooner or later, on the prescribers, and not on the
deceptive advertisements of the Anasarcin Chemical Company.
There is another little matter which throws an illuminating side-light
on the Anasarcin Company. They take every occasion to say that
Anasarcin is “not offered to the laity,” “never sold to the laity,”
etc.; but witness the following, which was found in the _Retail
Druggist_ of May, 1906, p. 179. The italics are ours.
CURE FOR DROPSY.
“As every druggist knows, dropsy has been one of the incurable
diseases when caused either from heart, liver or kidney trouble. A
_pharmacist_ in Winchester, Tenn., _has worked out a remedy_ called
Anasarcin, which he is exploiting to the physicians, and his remedy
is showing itself as possessing great merit. Several hopeless cases
have been treated as a last resort by Anasarcin and in a very short
time the patient has shown marked improvement and has effected
permanent cures.
“The result of the cases as handled by the physician with the aid
of Anasarcin has been so easily and quickly cured that physicians
of Tennessee and the southern states are high in their praises of
the remedy. The company which now manufactures and sells it is
known as the Anasarcin Chemical Co., of Winchester, Tenn. _Any
druggist who knows of a case of dropsy would be conferring a favor
on the patient and mankind in general by telling the party_ or
his physician _of the southern pharmacist_, and we have no doubt
but what a prompt relief and permanent cure would be affected.”
[Probably means effected.--Ed.]
Anedemin
If we are disposed to doubt the vaunted scientific ability of the
Anasarcin Company, we are forced to admire their business methods,
at least, if there is any truth in the saying that imitation is the
seal of success. Anasarcin has had this rather undesirable compliment
paid to it, for its native town of Winchester has given birth to
another remedy, Anedemin, which looks like a fair-haired twin
brother. The Anedemin Company has adopted Anasarcin almost bodily.
The name--“opposed to edema”--is about as close as the copyright laws
permit. The pharmacologic and therapeutic claims agree almost literally
with those of Anasarcin and contain the same exaggerations and
dangerous misstatements. There is the same emphasis on free purgation
with Epsom salts. The dose is the same. Both are marketed at $2.00 for
a box of 100--only the Anedemin people have adopted the prize package
device of throwing in 20 or 30 tablets extra, for good measure, and
give a discount of 75 cents or so.
[Illustration: Laboratory and Warehouse of the Anasarcin Chemical
Company, Winchester, Tenn.]
In short, the Anedemin Company has appropriated all of Anasarcin which
they considered of any value. It is, therefore, rather suggestive
that they drew the line at the formula. Anasarcin is said to contain
squill, sambucus and oxydendron; Anedemin discards the oxydendron and
reinforces the squill with strophanthus and apocynum. Notwithstanding
this material change in composition, the actions are described as
identical; this is again rather suggestive.
The Anedemin Company, like the Anasarcin Company, scorns crude
drugs and claims to use only the isolated principles. It was saved
the trouble of discovering active principles for strophanthus and
apocynum, for these are known; but it managed to find some scope for
its inventive genius, “both drugs being so chemically treated and
disposed as to absolutely eliminate all objectionable and disagreeable
properties and effects” so as to convert a vasoconstrictor action into
a dilator action; so as to render them non-toxic and non-cumulative;
so as to deprive apocynum of its characteristic nauseant effect. Who
can say that the days of miracles are past? Even this is not the limit
of Anedemin alchemy; if we are to believe their claims, they have
succeeded in forcing strophanthin, apocynum, scillain, etc., to combine
with each other: “It is a _definite chemical compound_ of the active
principles” of these drugs! This makes the achievements of Emil Fischer
in synthesizing sugars and proteids appear as mere child’s play.
Since the formulas were completed, however, clinical reports have
been numerous enough--almost too numerous, if we are to believe
them. Anedemin has been on the market for less than three years;
the circulars emphasize that testimonials and endorsements are not
solicited. Nevertheless, we are told that it is “endorsed by over fifty
thousand clinicians throughout the United States.” Since the total
number of physicians in the United States and Canada is only about
128,000, this means that nearly every second physician has endorsed
Anedemin. The Anasarcin Company solicits endorsements and they seem
to do the larger business. Hence the majority of physicians of the
United States must have written an endorsement of either Anedemin or
Anasarcin, or both. Or is this statement another “invention”? It is a
little peculiar that nearly all the endorsements come from small towns
in sparsely settled districts; practically none from the centers of
population. Does this mean that dropsy is more common in the rural
communities than in the cities?
THE INVENTORS OF ANASARCIN AND ANEDEMIN
Even the newspapers, when they tax our credulity with pretended
scientific “discoveries,” feel the moral obligation of justifying
themselves by telling us something of the personality and experience
of the discoverers. We may ask, therefore, who are these expert
pharmaceutic and synthetic chemists, these manufacturers of active
principles, these skilled clinicians of wide experience, who have
“intelligently built up the formula by wide application”? What are
we told of these men who ask us to believe, on their mere assurance,
in miracles and feats of magic; who tell us that they have converted
neutral principles into alkaloids, that they have effected definite
chemical compounds between these neutral principles, that they have
discovered principles that do not exist, that they have changed the
actions of these principles to suit their wishes, that, in short, they
have reversed the laws of Nature?
These companies are located in Winchester, Tenn., a town of about 1,500
inhabitants, situated in an agricultural country. The town boasts of
neither scientific schools, colleges, universities nor laboratories.
The Anasarcin Company was organized in 1902, the incorporators
and directors being Dr. John W. Grisard and his sons, Dr. John P.
Grisard, B. A. Grisard, and A. F. Grisard, and Will E. Walker, all of
Winchester. Dr. John W. Grisard seems to be the originator and promoter
of Anasarcin. W. E. Walker is an insurance solicitor of Winchester
and is not actively identified with the business. We are informed
that he owns but a single share of stock having a face value of $100,
and that he was added to the company in order to comply with the laws
of Tennessee, which require five directors for any corporation. Dr.
John W. Grisard, the father, has practically retired, but still has a
general supervising interest in the business. There is no regularly
licensed pharmacist or chemist connected with the company. The office
is in the rear of a jewelry store in the business part of Winchester
and on the second floor above. According to our reporter, an office
force of about ten stenographers and clerks handles the correspondence
and labels and sends out the preparation which is made in a crude frame
building located on a side street and without laboratory equipment.
According to our reporter, the work is done by the Grisards and a
colored man.
The Anedemin Chemical Company was organized in 1905 with a capital of
$20,000, the incorporators and directors being Dr. T. B. Anderton,
Floyd Estill, J. J. Lynch, J. M. Littleton and I. G. Phillips, all
residents of Winchester, and all lawyers with the exception of Dr.
T. B. Anderton. A Mr. Gordon, a clerical employee of the company, is
reported to have active charge of the business, to prepare the medicine
and conduct the correspondence. The office headquarters, laboratory and
complete outfit of the Anedemin Company comprises two rooms over the
law office of Estill & Littleton. No one connected with the company is
a regularly licensed pharmacist or graduate chemist.
Of the six physicians located in Winchester, three (50 per cent.)
are engaged in the dropsical cure business. Poor Winchester! Aside
from their connection with these two nostrums, these physicians may
be estimable and worthy citizens, but where, pray, did they find the
extensive clinical facilities and pharmaceutical knowledge necessary
for their wonderful and epoch-making discovery? Were they aided
in their scientific work by the four lawyers connected with the
Anedemin Company or by the insurance solicitor who is a director of
the Anasarcin Company? Did the 1,500 inhabitants of the town furnish
the vast clinical material necessary for discovering and working out
the formulas of these two preparations? If so, we fear that dropsical
affections are much more prevalent in Winchester than in any other
known spot on the globe. This matter should be investigated. Without
doubt the vital statistics of Franklin County would be most interesting
and we commend them to the special attention of the medical profession
in Tennessee.--(_From The Journal A. M. A., May 4 and 11, 1907._)
MAIGNEN ANTISEPTIC POWDER
Report of the Council on Pharmacy and Chemistry
The report which appears below was submitted by a referee and after
adoption by the Council was sent to the manufacturer for comment, in
accordance with the Council’s regular procedure in such cases. The
manufacturer’s comments were transmitted to a second referee, who
reported that after a careful consideration of the manufacturer’s
reply he saw no valid reason for a modification of the report. The
referee also reported that a visit to the Maignen Institute further
served to convince him of the viciousness of the treatment as given and
that the records made by the persons in the employ of the institute
were too inadequate to serve as clinical evidence. On the referee’s
recommendation, the report as originally adopted was reendorsed by the
Council and authorized for publication.
W. A. Puckner, Secretary.
Maignen Antiseptic Powder is marketed by the “Maignen Institute for
the Study of Bacterial Diseases,” Philadelphia. It is claimed to be
a mixture of calcium hydroxid, sodium carbonate, aluminum sulphate
and boric acid, but no statement as to the amount of the several
constituents is furnished. Its action depends on the sodium hydroxid
which is formed when the powder is treated with water, 1 Gm. of the
powder as now submitted to the Council yielding 0.32 Gm. of sodium
hydroxid (NaOH) and a specimen obtained a year ago yielding 0.28 Gm.
Its promiscuous use is recommended both to physicians and to the public
with claims which are extravagant, preposterous and even dangerous.
A pamphlet, clearly intended for the laity, entitled “What Is Catarrh?”
gives direction for the “sterilization” of the nose, throat, stomach,
lungs, eyes, gums, mouth and the genito-urinary tract. The following,
taken from this pamphlet, illustrates the absurdity of the claims made
for Maignen Antiseptic Powder:
“STERILIZATION OF THE STOMACH
“TAKE of the Maignen Antiseptic Powder half the quantity raised on
a dime, scant.
“ADD to a tumbler of water, preferably warm, and stir.
“DRINK SLOWLY.
“THIS IS WHAT MAY HAPPEN:
“1). Belching may be the first indication of the sterilization of
the stomach.
“2). The excess of acidity is corrected.
“3). The fermentation is stopped.
“4). The sterilization extends to the Intestinal Tract.
“5). The bowels are regulated without purgation.
“6). The whole metabolic process is improved.
“WHEN AND HOW OFTEN TO DRINK THE ANTISEPTIC SOLUTION.
“a). For Indigestion, whenever distressed, before or after meals.
“b). For Constipation, half an hour before breakfast or last thing
at night.
“c). For Gastro-Intestinal troubles, such as Typhoid Fever,
Dysentery and Cholera, which are the most serious forms of
catarrhal inflammation, take half a tumbler or a whole tumbler of
hot water with half the quantity of Powder raised on a dime every
hour, and between times a glass of generous [sic] wine.
“REMARKS
“The sterilization recommended here is a plain disinfecting process
which does not interfere with medical treatment. It is, on the
contrary, of great assistance to it.
“It has been found very effective in breaking up the cigarette
habit. It does away with the craving by removing the morbid
irritation of the mucous membrane.”
Eighty-eight disorders are listed in a pamphlet entitled “Antiseptic
Therapeutics” all of which are reported as having been treated with
success. The dangerous character of the Maignen “sterilization”
propaganda is illustrated by a pamphlet “First Aid to Baby-Sick” and by
the recommendation on the trade package:
“To prevent Blood Poisoning, Lockjaw, Hydrophobia and Infectious
Diseases.”
The legend on the trade package and the advertising matter contained in
it are likely to lead the public to place dependence on a weak sodium
hydroxid solution as a means of preventing blood-poison, lockjaw,
hydrophobia and infectious diseases. The pamphlet “First Aid to
Baby-Sick” recommends its use in sore eyes, teething and sore mouth,
sore throat, running ears, running nose, sore chest, summer complaint,
skin troubles and infection after vaccination; if any trust is put in
these claims, they are bound to lead to the sacrifice of many infants
through neglect of proper treatment.
Patent No. 1,086,339 has been granted on this powder to P. J. A.
Maignen of Philadelphia by the U. S. patent office on the following
specification of claim made in the application:
“1. A process for destroying microorganisms on living tissue,
without injuring the latter... whereby the growth of such
organisms is inhibited and their substance dissolved without
deleterious effect upon contiguous healthy tissue.”
With brazen assurance this grant has been twisted by the unscrupulous
promoters into a government endorsement of the preparation. It, of
course, means nothing of the sort, as, no doubt, in accordance with
legal routine the patent was granted without any investigation by the
patent office to determine the effectiveness of the powder for the
purpose claimed.
In view of the dangerous, unwarranted and absurd claims made for
Maignen Antiseptic Powder the referee recommends that it be refused
recognition, and that the Council declare its agreement with views
expressed in the article “Maignen Pulv.” published in The Journal, Feb.
15, 1913, p. 537, particularly the following:
“The germicidal powers of strong alkalies have long been known,
but the inconvenience of their application to tissues and
mucous membranes has prevented their use. That they will be of
service when sufficiently diluted not to irritate the tissues is
improbable, for the antiseptic power of such solution is slight and
the disinfectant value practically nil.”
Because the Maignen Institute has twisted the granting of U. S. patent
No. 1,086,339 into a quasi-endorsement of the claims made for Maignen
Antiseptic Powder it is recommended that a copy of this report be sent
to the Commissioner of Patents as a protest against the present law,
which authorizes the granting of patents on unproved and improbable
medical claims.--(_From The Journal A. M. A., Nov. 14, 1914._)
TYREE’S ANTISEPTIC POWDER[E]
Report of the Council on Pharmacy and Chemistry with Comments
[E] See also Tyree’s Antiseptic Powder, p. 404.
Tyree’s antiseptic powder was assigned for examination to a
subcommittee of the Council, which made the following report:
_To the Council on Pharmacy and Chemistry_:--Your subcommittee, to whom
was assigned Tyree’s Pulv. Antiseptic Comp., marketed by J. S. Tyree,
Washington, D. C., reports as follows: The label on the package states:
“This preparation is a scientific combination of borate of sodium,
alumen, carbolic acid, glycerin and the crystallized principles of
thyme, eucalyptus, gaultheria and mentha, in the form of a powder,” etc.
The statement that the powder contains the crystalline principles of
thyme, eucalyptus, gaultheria and mentha is vague and misleading,
since the chief medical constituents of eucalyptus and gaultheria are
liquids, but it tends to convey the impression that the powder contains
the essential constituents of these drugs, namely, thymol, oil of
eucalyptus or eucalyptol, oil of wintergreen, or methyl salicylate, and
menthol.
The literature supplied to physicians _claims_ its composition to
be: “Parts, sod. bor., 50; alumen, 50; ac. carbol., 5; glycerin, 5;
the cryst. principles of thyme, 5; eucalyptus, 5; gaultheria, 5, and
mentha, 5.”
The composition, therefore, might be expressed as follows:
Sodium borate (borax) 50 parts, or 38.46 per cent.
Alum 50 parts, or 38.46 per cent
|
Jews in Europe in consequence of the 1349
Black Death
Don Isaac Abarbanel 1437‒1509
The first Hebrew books printed 1475
Inquisition against the Marannos 1480
Expulsion of the Jews from Spain 1492
Expulsion of the Jews from Portugal 1497
The first ghetto in Venice 1516
Reuchlin for the Talmud, Pfefferkorn against it 1506‒1516
First complete edition of the Talmud printed 1520
Spanish Jews settle in Holland 1591
Manasseh ben Israel 1604‒1657
Sabbatai Zevi 1626‒1676
Baruch Spinoza 1632‒1677
Slaughter of Jews in Poland by the Cossacks under 1648
Chmielnicki
Manasseh ben Israel came to England 1655
First Portuguese synagogue in London 1656
First German synagogue in London 1692
Moses Mendelssohn born 1729
The edict of Joseph II., Emperor of Austria 1782
Moses Montefiore born 1784
Frederick William II. of Prussia abolishes the 1787
‘Leibzoll’
The Jews in France emancipated 1791
Jews admitted to the freedom of the City of London 1832
The Jews’ civil disabilities in England removed 1845
Persecution of Jews in Damascus: Professor Theodore’s 1840
letter on same
D. Salomons elected M.P. for Greenwich 1851
Jewish Oath Bill passed 1858
CONTENTS.
_BOOK I._
B.C. 586 TO A.C. 70.
IN THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.
CHAPTER I.
THE JEWS IN BABYLON.
1. Babylonian Exiles
2. Persian Conquest of Babylon
3. The Influences of the Exile
4. How Cyrus’s Permission was received
5. The End of the Exile
CHAPTER II.
THE RETURN TO PALESTINE.
1. The Rebuilding of the Temple
2. The Samaritans
3. The Feast of Purim
4. Ezra the Scribe
5. The Work of Ezra and Nehemiah
CHAPTER III.
LIFE IN PALESTINE.
1. Condition of the People
2. Literary Labours
3. Alexandrian Jews
4. The Septuagint
5. Under Egyptian Rule
6. Under Syrian Rule
7. Home Rule
CHAPTER IV.
THE MACCABEAN WAR OF INDEPENDENCE.
1. Antiochus Epiphanes
2. Antiochus’s Tyranny
3. Resistance of Mattathias
4. Chasidim and Zaddikim
5. The Success of Judas Maccabeus
6. Institution of Hanucah
7. Treaty with Rome
CHAPTER V.
PALESTINE UNDER NATIVE RULE.
1. Death of Judas Maccabeus
2. Jonathan the Maccabee
3. Simon, the First of the Priest-King Dynasty
4. The Sons of Simon
5. Reign of John Hyrcanus
6. His Last Years
CHAPTER VI.
JUDEA DURING THE REMAINDER OF THE RULE OF THE ASMONEANS.
1. Rival Factions, Pharisees and Sadducees
2. How they got their Names
3. Their Tenets and Position, Religious and Political
4. State Quarrel with the Pharisees
5. The Essenes
6. Reign of Alexander Jannæus
7. After the Death of Alexander Jannæus
CHAPTER VII.
A NEW DYNASTY.
1. Antipater the Idumean
2. Rome arbitrates
3. Antipater’s plans
4. The Sanhedrin
5. The Fall of the Asmonean House
CHAPTER VIII.
REIGN OF HEROD.
1. Antipater’s ‘Desire’ fulfilled
2. How Herod strengthened his Position
3. Herod as Husband
4. Herod as Father
5. Herod as King
6. The End of Herod’s Reign
7. Hillel: a Contrast
CHAPTER IX.
JUDEA BEFORE THE WAR.
1. Herod’s Will
2. Judea sinks into a Roman Province
3. Jesus of Nazareth
4. Jews in Egypt and Syria
5. Birth of Christianity
6. Reign of Herod Agrippa
7. Caligula and the Jews
CHAPTER X.
THE WAR WITH ROME.
1. Agrippa II.; Roman Governors
2. Vespasian sent to Judea
3. Preparations for Defence
4. Josephus
CHAPTER XI.
THE END OF THE WAR.
1. The Defence of the Provinces
2. Affairs in Jerusalem
3. The War Party and the Peace Party: their Leaders
4. The Siege of Jerusalem
5. A Mediator sent: Terms proposed
6. The Destruction of the Temple
_BOOK II._
A.C. 70 TO 1600.
DARKNESS.
CHAPTER XII.
AFTER THE WAR.
1. Titus completes his Conquest
2. Masada
3. What became of the Chief Actors
4. What became of the Country and the People
5. Salvage
6. Jochanan ben Saccai; the Schools
7. An Unforeseen Result of the War: Jewish Christians
CHAPTER XIII.
THE REVOLT UNDER HADRIAN.
1. Conquered Jews in the West
2. Contemporary Jews in the East
3. Under Trajan
4. The Policy of Hadrian
5. The Jews in Revolt: their Leader
6. Akiba, the Romance of his Youth
7. Akiba, the Romance of his Age
8. Hadrian’s Resolve accomplished
CHAPTER XIV.
THE REVIVAL OF THE SCHOOLS: THEIR WORK.
1. One of History’s Miracles
2. The Schools: their Work
3. The Masters of the Schools
4. The Moral Influence of the Schools
5. The Political Influence of the Schools
6. The Literary Influence of the Schools
CHAPTER XV.
CHRISTIANITY A STATE RELIGION.
1. How it spread among the Heathen
2. The First Christian Emperor
3. Constantine legislates on the Subject; its Effects
4. Jews in the East under Persian Rule
5. Julian the Apostate
CHAPTER XVI.
THE BREAK-UP OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE: SOME OF ITS CONSEQUENCES.
1. Political Changes
2. Social Changes
3. Monks and Saints
4. How Jews became Traders
5. The Slave Trade
6. Jews as Slave Owners
7. Church Councils
8. Eastern Jews
9. War between the Persian and the Byzantine Empires
CHAPTER XVII.
THE RISE OF MAHOMEDANISM.
1. The Koran or the Sword
2. What Mahomed learnt from the Jews
3. Islam
4. Likenesses between Islam and Judaism
5. Differences between Islam and Judaism
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE CONQUESTS OF THE KALIPHS:
EFFECT, RELIGIOUS AND SOCIAL, ON THE JEWS.
1. Progress of Mahomedanism
2. Gaonim
3. Spain in the Hands of the Mahomedans
4. The Karaite Movement
5. Mahomedan Causes for Karaism
6. The Leader of the Karaite Movement
7. What became of the Sect
8. Good out of Evil
CHAPTER XIX.
LIFE UNDER THE KALIPHS.
1. Jews in the East
2. Close of the Schools; some Scholars
3. Jews in the West
4. The Policy of the Early Kaliphs
5. Some Effects of this Policy
CHAPTER XX.
JEWS IN SPAIN (710‒1150).
1. ‘Like a Dream in the Night’
2. The Jew Schools
3. The first Nagid of Spain
4. Another Nagid: troubles in Granada
5. Revival of Catholicism in Spain
6. Effect on the Jews
7. The Almohade Dynasty of Kaliphs
CHAPTER XXI.
JEWS IN SPAIN, CONTINUED (1150‒1492).
1. Under Catholic Kings in Spain
2. The Toledo Synagogue
3. The Downward Slope to Death
4. The Marannos or New Christians
5. An Effort at Argument
6. The Inquisition
7. Objects and Functions of the Inquisition
8. Some Statistics of the Inquisition
9. Edict of Expulsion
10. Abarbanel’s Intercession
CHAPTER XXII.
JEWS IN CENTRAL EUROPE IN THE MIDDLE AGES.
1. General Position of European Jews
2. Jews become Money-lenders
3. Charges of Usury
CHAPTER XXIII.
JEWS IN CENTRAL EUROPE, CONTINUED.
1. The Crusades
2. Glimpses of Better Things
3. Life in France till the Expulsion thence
4. Expelled from France
5. Treatment of Jews in the German States
CHAPTER XXIV.
JEWS IN ENGLAND (1066‒1210).
1. The First Seventy Years
2. ‘Saints’ and Supplies
3. Accession of Richard
4. Treatment by Richard
5. Under John
CHAPTER XXV.
JEWS IN ENGLAND, CONTINUED (1216‒1290).
1. The Next Fifty Years
2. The Caorsini
3. The First Jewish M.P.’s
4. Another Device for raising Money
5. Under Edward I.
6. Some Ironical Legislation
7. Dishonest Jews
8. Efforts at Conversion
9. Expulsion of Jews from England
_BOOK III._
A.C. 100 TO 1500.
STARLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CONCERNING JEWISH LITERATURE AND LITERARY MEN.
1. Starlight
2. How the Stars shone
3. Piyutim
4. A Specimen Planet
CHAPTER XXVII.
SOME FIXED STARS.
1. Solomon ibn Gabirol
2. ‘Rashi’
3. Ibn Ezra
4. A Great Traveller
5. Jehudah Halevi
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE GREATEST OF THE FIXED STARS, MAIMONIDES (1135‒1204).
1. Early Days in Spain
2. Life in Exile
3. Becomes a Court Physician
4. Court and other Employment
5. His Writings
6. His Character
7. The End of his Life
CHAPTER XXIX.
DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN.
1. The Stars die out
2. Whither the Exiles went
3. Life in Germany
4. A New Crusade
5. What became of the Spanish and Portuguese Exiles
CHAPTER XXX.
THE DARKNESS VISIBLE.
1. Deterioration of Character
2. Atmospheric Conditions
3. A Shooting Star――Sabbatai Zevi
4. How the News was received
5. The Sultan interferes
6. Sabbatai resigns his Pretensions
7. Becomes a Convert to Mahomedanism
_BOOK IV._
A.C. 1591 TO 1885.
DAWN.
CHAPTER XXXI.
DAWN.
1. Beginnings of Better Days in Holland
2. The New Jerusalem
3. Sephardim and Ashkenazim
4. Spanish Jews in Holland
5. Their Acquired Intolerance
6. An Instance in Point: Uriel da Costa
CHAPTER XXXII.
MANASSEH BEN ISRAEL.
1. His Early Life
2. His Writings and his Friends
3. Manasseh finds his Vocation
4. Negotiations begun for the Return of the Jews to England
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE RETURN OF THE JEWS TO ENGLAND.
1. Manasseh presents his Petition
2. A Christian Advocate
3. What People said
4. How the Petition was received
5. End of Manasseh’s Story
CHAPTER XXXIV.
SPINOZA.
1. Clouds obscure the Dawn
2. The Amsterdam Jews at the Time of Spinoza
3. Spinoza’s Student Days
4. Things come to a Climax
5. How Spinoza took his Sentence; his Mode of Life
6. Unto this Last
7. His Writings
8. Results
CHAPTER XXXV.
IN NORTHERN AND CENTRAL EUROPE, BEFORE THE DAWN.
1. A Long Night
2. Reuchlin and the Talmud
3. Another Jewish Influence: Elias Levitas
4. Some Jewish Results from the Invention of Printing
5. Influence of Printing on Kabbalistic Literature
CHAPTER XXXVI.
IN NORTHERN AND CENTRAL EUROPE, BEFORE THE DAWN, CONTINUED.
1. A Group of Stars
2. Polish Jews
3. French Jews
4. Social Life in Germany
5. Moral and Material Effects upon the Jews
CHAPTER XXXVII.
MOSES MENDELSSOHN.
1. Early Days in Dessau
2. Goes to Berlin
3. How he fares there
4. Seed-time
5. Harvest
6. Nathan der Weise
7. Literary Successes
8. His Home Life
9. Last Years
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE NEXT HUNDRED YEARS (1780‒1880).
1. Light and Shadows
2. Leopold Zunz
3. Progress of Events and Legislation in Germany
4. Progress of Events and Legislation in France
5. Progress of Events and Legislation in Italy
6. Progress of Events and Legislation in Spain and Portugal
7. Progress of Events and Legislation in Austrian Dominions
8. Progress of Events and Legislation in other European States
9. Progress of Events and Legislation in Russia and Poland
10. Progress of Events and Legislation in Danubian Provinces
11. A Glance at the Rest of the Map
CHAPTER XXXIX.
TWO CENTURIES AND A QUARTER IN ENGLAND (1660‒1885).
1. The First Fifty Years
2. Influx of Germans and Poles: how received
3. Converts
4. Progress of Anglo-Jewish Legislation
5. Communal Progress
6. The Nineteenth Century
7. A Slander revived and slain
8. The Man of the Nineteenth Century
9. Conclusion
INDEX
_MAPS._
1. Palestine
2. The Roman Empire at the close of the Republic
3. Europe in the Middle Ages
_Erratum._
_Page 169, line 22, for 66 read 72._
OUTLINES OF JEWISH HISTORY.
BOOK I.
500 B.C. TO 70 A.C.
IN THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.
אֲסִירֵי עֳנִי וּבַרְזֶל
PSALM cvii. 10.
‘_Life fulfils itself in many ways._’
CHAPTER I.
THE JEWS IN BABYLON.
=1. Babylonian Exiles.=――Nearly two thousand five hundred years ago
Jerusalem fell under the siege of Nebuchadnezzar, and a great many Jews
were led away captives into Babylon. Daniel was one of these captives,
and Ezekiel was another; and most, even of the rank and file, were men
of some character and some learning. Gradually, the exiles took up the
position rather of colonists than of captives. Lands were allotted to
them, they grew to love and own the soil they cultivated, and their
prophets kept alive in them the sense that, though Babylonians now
instead of Palestinians, they were still Jews. The name of Jews instead
of Israelites came into use from this period, as the greater number of
the Babylonian exiles belonged to the kingdom of Judah. No records, in
which much trust can be put, have come down to us of the fate of the
ten tribes which made up the kingdom of Israel. Thousands of them, it
is certain, were carried off into foreign captivity when Palestine was
invaded by Shalmaneser about 130 years before the fall of Jerusalem.
The ten tribes have thenceforward no separate history.
=2. Persian Conquest of Babylon.=――Forty-eight years after the
destruction of Jerusalem the whole of the Babylonian kingdom passed
into the power of Cyrus the Persian. Two years after his conquest he
told the Jewish exiles in Babylon that any or all of them, if they
liked, might return to the land of their fathers, and become his Syrian
instead of his Babylonian subjects. He gave them permission also to
rebuild their temple, and he restored to them the holy vessels which
had been taken away by Nebuchadnezzar’s troops when they sacked
Jerusalem.
=3. The Influences of the Exile.=――Fifty years, we must remember, had
come and gone since the fall of Jerusalem. Sorrows, that seem quite
unbearable at first, grow with time to be lightly borne. ‘By the waters
of Babylon,’ the first exiles had sat down and wept, but on its banks
by-and-by their children ran and laughed. They ‘hung their harps on
the willow trees,’ and refused to sing the songs of Zion for a year or
two, or may be ten. But by degrees the ‘strange land’ grew homelike,
and the harps, we may be sure, were taken down, and strung, and tuned.
After a while every one has to live in the present, however dear or
sad the past may be. The Jews in Babylon learned to face their life in
captivity, and to make the best of it. In many respects they were the
better for it. They grew, indeed, to be truer patriots in exile than
for generations they had been in possession. The loss of their country
seemed to rouse them and to steady them. They became more patient and
united, and less childish and discontented. The counsels of Ezekiel and
Jeremiah, and of the other unnamed prophets of the exile, were listened
to in Babylon as they never had been in Palestine. The law of Moses
was read, and the Psalms of David were probably sung in mean little
meeting-houses, but these poor places were crowded, and included more
devout worshippers than had ever assembled in the marble courts of the
temple. Many people think that it is to these earnest exiles in Babylon
that we owe the small beginnings of our present synagogues. The word
‘synagogue’ comes from the Greek, and means an assembling together;
and though the word itself does not come into use till long after the
return from the captivity, yet places of assembly for prayer and praise
were quite common all throughout Judea long before historians talk of
them by the name of synagogue.
=4. How Cyrus’s Permission was received.=――To many of the Jewish
settlers in Babylon, and especially to those who had been born
there, Palestine must have come to sound like England does to her
colonists――as a name, whenever and wherever heard, brimful of the
tenderest loves and longings, but still more or less a name. To old
folks the old land is a memory, to young people a hope, but to old and
young alike the land where they live and work is home. And Jews are
particularly homelike in their natures, soon fitting into, and growing
fond of, and looking native to, any spot whereon they settle. For some
time they had been fairly and even generously treated by the people
who had led them captive; and thus when the Persian proclamation was
published, there was no eager ungrateful rush to leave Babylon, and
to return to their own land under the protection of the conquerors
of their captors. Love for the old scenes was strong, but a sort
of loyalty to the new weakened the love a little, and made duty a
difficult choice.
=5. The End of the Exile.=――The liberty of return which Cyrus gave
closes the Babylonian captivity. Those Jews who remained in Babylon
remained as voluntary exiles. With some, and they were not few, the
sense that Babylon was the land of their children proved more potent
than the remembrance that Palestine was the land of their fathers.
Neither country was theirs. And in Babylon they were comfortable; and
that condition, in making up one’s mind, counts for much. The fair land
of promise was certainly to all the land of their dreams, but it is not
quite as certain that it was to all equally the land of their desires.
Some 42,000, however, brave and faithful men and women, decided to
make use of Cyrus’s permission, and under the leadership of Zerubbabel
crossed the Euphrates, and set out for the Holy Land; those who
remained behind gave plenty of good wishes, and willingly forwarded
supplies.
Illustration: PALESTINE
_E. Weller Lithog^r._
_Drawn & Engraved by E. Weller. Red Lion Square_
_London Longman & C^o._
CHAPTER II.
THE RETURN TO PALESTINE.
=1. The Rebuilding of the Temple.=――The first task of the exiles
when they arrived at Jerusalem was to set about the rebuilding of the
temple. The ruins were cleared away, and early in the second year of
their return, amid great rejoicings, the foundation-stone of the second
temple was laid. There were some very old people in the crowd, who had
worshipped in the first beautiful temple, and to them the scene could
not have been one of unmixed joy. The Bible says, ‘The old men wept.’
But men old enough to remember and to weep over their memories could
not have been many, and hope and rejoicing were the chief feelings on
the occasion.
=2. The Samaritans.=――Very soon the work, so gladly begun, was
interrupted, and by home foes instead of foreign ones. Shalmaneser,
king of Assyria, nearly two hundred years before, had conquered Hoshea,
the last king of Israel, and had carried off many of Hoshea’s subjects
into captivity. Samaria had fallen after a three years’ siege, and in
place of those Israelites who had been killed, and of those who had
been made prisoners of war, the king of Assyria brought some of his own
subjects from Babylon and Cuthea, into the desolated land of Israel.
These new settlers were, of course, heathens, but they adopted, after
a time, some of the rites of the Israelites among whom they lived. The
old inhabitants who had been left in Samaria, and the new who had been
brought thither, all came to be called Samaritans. Their religious
belief was naturally a little mixed. There was much that was heathen
and idolatrous, but a great deal, too, of what was distinctly Jewish in
their thoughts and practice. When Jerusalem was again in the hands of
Jews, and the temple about to be rebuilt, the Samaritans, at any rate,
thought themselves quite Jewish enough to offer to help in the work.
The exiles did not agree with them. The fifty years’ captivity had made
a great change in their way of looking at things. Their Judaism was
of a stronger and a sterner sort than it used to be. They meant the
service in their new temple to be purely Jewish, and it seemed to them
that if they let the Samaritans help in the building of the temple,
it would lead to the introduction of idolatrous rites into Divine
worship. Perhaps they felt, in an illogical sort of way, that the
building itself would be profaned if any part of the work was done
by such half-and-half Jews as were the Samaritans. No one likes to be
pronounced not good enough for any work he himself proposes to do, and
the Samaritans were extremely indignant at the rejection of their offer.
They were mean enough to take revenge by speaking against the Jews at
the Persian court. They were so far successful, that the work in which
they were not allowed to share was presently put a stop to by order of
Cyrus. But some fifteen years later his successor Darius, the Darius
who was defeated at Marathon, gave permission and help too, and, in
spite of the Samaritans, the temple was finished and dedicated, twenty
years after the foundation-stone had been laid. The Samaritans, partly
in imitation, partly in anger, and partly, it may be hoped, from
religious feeling, later on built a little temple for themselves on
Mount Gerizim.
=3. The Feast of Purim.=――The next great event comes with an interval
of nearly fifty years. The meek Jewish maiden who, to serve her
people, became a queen, and who, in her palace, ‘did the commandment
of Mordecai, like as when she was brought up with him,’ is believed to
have married king Xerxes, the Xerxes who, at Thermopylæ, desired the
Spartans to give up their arms, and to whom Leonidas sent back the
famous retort to ‘come and take them,’ All the romantic facts, which
are told in the Book of Esther, and which led to the institution of
Purim, history seems to show, took place during that monarch’s reign.
=4. Ezra the Scribe.=――The influence of good Jews remained strong
at the Persian court and among the Persian people. The next king,
Artaxerxes, had a Jew for his cup-bearer, and showed himself,
throughout his reign, most kindly disposed towards his Jewish subjects.
He let them appoint their own judges, and readily gave permission
to Ezra to lead another colony from Babylon to join the settlement
in Judea; and he made Nehemiah, who was his cup-bearer, governor of
Palestine. Ezra――the Scribe, as he is called――was a fine character,
strong-handed and strong-hearted too, a many-sided man. He seems to
have got his name of scribe (סוֹפֵר) from his literary powers, which he
chiefly used in transcribing the Pentateuch from old Hebrew characters
to those in use at the present day. The name became by degrees applied
to a whole class. The Sopherim, or scribes, were in turn skilful
writers and careful expounders and patient students of the law. They
were the ‘men of the Book,’[1] the lawyers of the Pentateuch. Malachi,
the last of the prophets, lived at this period, and the scribes to
some extent grew, in time, to take the place of the prophets in the
religious life of the Jewish nation. The נָבִיא, the servant of the Most
High, had spoken His message――the סוֹפֵר, with patient enthusiasm, was at
hand to transcribe it. Their love for the Law and their knowledge of
the Law gave the scribes spiritual power, and by-and-by political power
also. For as the Law became by degrees the only national possession
left to the Jews, those most learned in it naturally came to the front.
The wisest and most skilled in interpreting the Law were called on to
administer it, and to take part in the government of the dispossessed
people. Ezra the Scribe was the first, chief and representative of the
great body of students and teachers who, successively under the names
of Sopherim, Tanaim, and Amoraim, became a power in Palestine.
=5. The Work of Ezra and Nehemiah.=――Both Ezra and Nehemiah were men
of the best type of Jewish character. They loved the Lord ‘with all
their heart and soul and might,’ which may be taken to mean using brain
and heart and hands in the service. They willingly left the ease and
comfort of court life for rough work of all kinds in Palestine. They
desired to help their brethren in every possible way. They found plenty
of preaching to be needed, and plenty, too, of work of a more practical
sort. With equal energy they set about both. The walls of Jerusalem
were in ruins. These, they wisely thought, ought to be repaired and
rebuilt, for a people whose defences are weak are at the mercy of all.
It was no light task; for the Samaritans, led by Sanballat, harassed
and hindered the workers by every means in their power. They spoke
against them and insulted them, and when they found evil words fail,
they tried fighting. The Jewish leaders were equal to the occasion;
they gave their men weapons as well as tools, and in the end courage
and patience won. The walls were rebuilt and the governor’s house was
fortified, and Nehemiah was able to go back for a while to his court
duties. Meanwhile Ezra had been busy in another way. The defences of
the religion as well as of the city had breaches and gaps in it. Many
had married among the heathen, and were bringing up their children to
a weak and most hurtful mixed belief. With a three days’ notice Ezra
called the congregation together. Then, without any roundabout talk, he
said to them, ‘You have sinned; put away your strange wives; do God’s
pleasure.’ It was a hard bidding. God’s pleasure and man’s pleasure are
often one and the same, but not always. To be good and to be happy is
not uncommon, but occasionally if one wants to be good one has to be
unhappy. There comes a conscious choosing between the doing of God’s
pleasure and of our own pleasure, as to these Jews of old. They made
the higher and the harder choice. From love of God, and in obedience
to His law, they gave up their ‘strange,’ sweet, unlawful loves. With
people in such a mood the rest of Ezra’s and Nehemiah’s reforms were
comparatively easy. It was grand material to work upon. There was some
resistance on the part of the more well-off families, who liked to be
left alone, but the efforts of Ezra and Nehemiah for the good of the
nation were not relaxed nor weakened thereby. They insisted on the
proper observance of the Sabbath, they resettled the rights of property,
and they restored the law of Moses to its place as an inspired code for
constant reading and reference. Ezra has been called the second Moses,
and the work he did was certainly of the same sort. Moses the lawgiver,
with direct Divine help, made a tribe into a nation. Ezra the Scribe,
with indirect Divine help, made of a dispossessed nation an undying
people. The means employed was the same in both cases――God’s Law.
CHAPTER III.
LIFE IN PALESTINE.
=1. Condition of the People.=――After the stress and strain of the
religious revival under Ezra and Nehemiah, things settled down for a
long while into a quiet, uneventful course. It was the seed-time of
national character, the season when growth is active though it does not
show. The Persian conquerors, busy with their Greek wars, did not much
trouble their Jewish subjects in Syria. Every now and again another
little band of exiles would join their friends in Judea, or would
journey on to Egypt to form a new little Jewish community there. Even
the conquest of the Persian Empire by Alexander the Great made little
difference to the Jews. Their personal government was in their own
hands, and changes in political government made little outward sign
in their lives. They were always law-abiding, and neither from Persian
nor Greek did there come any startling or embarrassing demands on their
loyalty. There is a story told of a dramatic meeting at the gates of
Jerusalem between Alexander of Macedon and Jaddua the high priest, when
the armed king, who came in anger, suddenly fell on his knees before
the white-robed priest. But the anger, and the armour, and the robes,
and the kiss of peace, and the meeting altogether, seem, with many
another charming and somewhat shaky relic, to have been swept away by
stiff new brooms into the lumber-room of history.
=2. Literary Labours.=――The quiet time was good for scholars. In
the hundred years between the death of Nehemiah and the death of
Alexander there was a good deal of literary activity in Palestine. To
the Pentateuch which Ezra taught in schools, and read and expounded in
synagogues, a second portion of Holy Scriptures[2]――the Prophets――was
added; and a third portion, Holy Writings――followed. What is called the
canon of the Hebrew Scriptures,[2] in the form and order of our Hebrew
Bible, was definitely arranged yet a little later on. This work was
almost all done in Hebrew, which was still the language of the people.
Then a great store of wisdom, which had been the growth of ages,
began at this period to be collected and sifted, and put into shape.
There were proverbs and parables and wise sayings of all sorts, and
quantities of long arguments and discussions, and some supplementary,
and perhaps not always very accurate, history. It all began to be
looked into. Partly in Aramaic, and partly in Greek, a good deal of it
got gradually written down. Some of the wisdom and a great part of the
history grew, in this and the next century, into what are called the
apocryphal books. These, though they have not the value of inspired
writings, have considerable merit of their own. The best, too, of the
talks and the texts and the legendary lore was gathered together, and
made a foundation for the Midrash, which had for its chief object the
exposition of the Bible, and especially of the Pentateuch. And besides
all these tasks, the energy and earnestness of the people found yet
another channel. They set about formulating a ritual, that is a regular
arrangement of prayer and service.
=3. Alexandrian Jews.=――In the time of Alexander of Macedon,
Alexander the Great, as he is called, the city of Alexandria, in Egypt,
was founded in his honour. A great many Jews joined the Greek and
Egyptian colonists, and were among the early settlers in the city.
By degrees these Alexandrian Jews grew to be a little less
|
this pre-
sent
___________________________________
( 37 )
sent reigning lover of the sport; she is
rather above mediocrity in height and
size, with fine dark hair, and a pair of
bewitching hazel eyes; very agreeable
and loving, but she is not so unreasonable
as to expect constancy; it is a weak un-
profitable quality in a woman, and if she
can persuade her husband or keeper that
she has it, it is just the same as though
she really possessed it. Miss B--lt--n
is conscious she loves variety, as it con-
duces both to her pleasure and interest;
and she gives each of her gallants the
same liberty of conscience, therefore she
never lessens the fill of joy, by any real
or affected freaks of jealousy; when her
lovers come to her, they are welcome,
and they are equally so when they fly to
another's arms. Indeed, when they do
so, it is generally to her advantage, as
she finds they return to her with re-
doubled ardour, and her charms are in
general more dear, from a comparison
with others; and although her age is
bordering upon twenty-four, and she has
been a traveller in our path four years,
her desires are not the least abated, nor
does she set less value on herself.
Miss
___________________________________
( 38 )
Miss D--v--np--rt, No 14, _Lisle-street,
Leicester-fields_.
The nymphs like Nereids round her couch
were plac'd,
Where she another sea-born Venus lay;
She lay and lean'd her cheek upon her hand,
And cast a look fo languishingly sweet,
As if secure of all beholders hearts,
Neglecting she could take 'em.
This young charmer, for she is not
yet past the bloom of eighteen, has so
beautiful a face, that though here and
there the general ravager of beauty has
left his dented marks in a skin, that the
finest tints of the tulip, carnation, or
rose, blended with the hue of the fairest
lily, cannot equal, (so vastly superior is
the vermilion tinge of nature, in this her
choicest and most animated work over
all other) yet their effect is rather pleas-
ing than otherwise; and perhaps have
tempered a blaze of beauty, which with-
out them would have been insupportable.
Her eyes are of that colour, which the
celebrated Fielding has given the heroine
ofhis most admirable work, and which
dart
( 39 )
dart a lustre peculiar to themselves.
From such an eye each look has power
to raise
"The loosest wishes in the chastest heart,"'
and melt the soul to all the thrillings of
unasked desire, till quite overpowered
with the transporting gaze, the senses
faint, and hasten to enjoyment. Her
hair is also black, of which great orna-
ment, nature has been lavishly bountiful,
for when loose, it flows in unlimited
tresses down to her waist; nor are the
_tendrills_ of the _moss covered grotto_ thinner
distributed, but though not yet _bushy_,
might truly be stiled _Black Heath_; how
early this _thicket_ of her maidenhead _was
penetrated_ through, by the natural invader
of _Middlesex_, we cannot pretend to say;
moft probably when it was only
a small brake; for from its present
state, and the extraordinary warmth
of the soil, it must have began to shoot
very early, and the mother of all things
must have opened the sanguinary sluices
in this delightful _Channel_, at an early
period. The mount above, has a most
delicious swell, as ambitious to receive
on it downy bed, its _swelling rival_and
_antagonist_
( 40 )
_antagonist_, and it is so well clothed, that
it may be justly called the Cyprian
Grove; whilst her breasts are so fine and
so fully shaped, as to entitle her to be
stiled _en bon point_, in the richest sense of
the words, and they have a springinness
that defies any weight whatever, of amo-
rous pressure. Here the voluptuary
might revel in pleasure, better imagined
than described, in
"Soft silent rapture and extatic bliss."
Her teeth are remarkably fine; she is
tall, and so well proportioned (when you
examine her whole naked figure, which
she will permit you to do, if you per-
form Cytherean Rites like an able priest)
that she might be taken for a fourth
Grace, or a breathing Animated Venus
de Medicis. Her disposition and tem-
per is remarkably good, so sweet that it
is your own fault if it be soured;
for she is possesed of an uncommon
share of politeness, nothing rude or un-
courteous in her manner, but abounding
with civility and good breeding; her
connections are good, and she has a
keeper (a Mr. H--nn--h) both kind
and
( 41 )
and liberal; notwithstanding which, she
has no objection to two supernumerary
guineas.
___________________________________
Miss G--rge, _at a Grocer's Shop, South
Moulton-Street_.
Hast thou beheld a fresher, sweeter nymph,
Such war of white and red upon her cheeks,
What stars do spangle, Heaven, with so much
beauty,
As those two eyes become that Heav'nly face.
At the tempting luscious age of nine-
teen, this lovely girl presents us with a
face well worth the attention of the _na-
turalist_; She is of a fine fair complexion,
with light brown hair, which waves in
many a graceful ringlet, has good teeth,
and her tell-tale dark eyes, speak indeed,
the tender language of love, and beam
unutterable softness; she is tall of stature;
and of the moft tempting _en bon point_;
plump breasts, which in whiteness sur-
pass the driven _snow_, and melt the most
_snowy_ of mankind to rapture. Her name
she borrows from a gentleman, who,
some little time ago, posessed her (as he
thought
( 42 )
thought) entirely for some time, but find-
ing himslef mistaken, and tired with the
_cornuted_ burthen on his brows, he left her
about six months ago, to seek support in
this grand mart of pleasure; and as she
has been remarkably successful, and sti11
remains a favourite piece for the enjoy-
ment of her charms, and the conversa-
tional intercourse, with a temper remark-
ably good, for a whole night she ex-
pects five pounds five shillings.
___________________________________
Miss Cl--nt--on, near Middlesex Hospital.
Mark my eyes, and as they languish,
Read what your's have written there.
This is a very genteel made little girl,
with the languishing eye of an Eloise;
like her too, she is warm with the _fire_ of
love, in all its native freedom, which,
fanned by the amorous air, soon kindles
into a flame that cannot be quenched
but by the powerful effects of the
_Cyprian Torrent_, which she is very fond
of being _bathed in_; she has good teeth,
And a lilly white skin, which is beauti-
fully
( 43 )
fully contrasted by a _grot_ black as the
sooty raven, which, for two pounds two,
will entertain you a whole night.
___________________________________
Miss Betsy Cl--rke, No. 1 1, _Stephen-Street,
Rathbone Place_.
Hope, with a gaudy prospect feeds the eye,
Sooths every sense, does with each with
comply;
But false enjoyment the kind guide destroys,
We lose the passion in the treacherous joys.
Enjoyment is the most exquisite of
human pleasures; ah! what a pity it is
so short in duration. Nature wound up
to the highest pitch, after striking _twelve_,
immediately descends to poor solitary
_one_: these are the reflections that na-
turally arise on enjoying Betsy. Though
she is but little, she is an epitome of de-
light, a quintescence of joy, which by the
most endearing chemistry, give all spirit,
and unite in small compass, the efficacy
of a much larger bulk. Her lovely fair
tresses and elegant countenance beat
alarms to love; but we attack only to
fall in the breach, and lament that the
luscious
( 44 )
luscious conflict is so soon ended. The
common destroyer of beauty has made a
few dells on the face of this fair Jewess,
but a pair of pretty dimples makes ample
amends, and quite over balances these
trifling imperfections; she has been in
life not more than six months, and ex-
pects, if she calls any man a friend,
to receive two guineas the first visit.
___________________________________
Miss D--gl--ss, No. 1, _Poland-Street_.
See through the liquid eye, the melting glance,
The buried soul in lovely tumults lost,
And all the senses to the _centre sent_.
She is of the middle size, light hair,
blue eyes, and about twenty-two; she is
a very agreeable companion, fings a
good song, and is a buxom, lively,
luscious bed-fellow, but has nothing re-
markable above the common run of
women of the town, who are young and
handsome; she has been a sportswoman
in the Cyprian Games about five years,
and always expects two pounds two be-
fore she is mounted.
Miss
( 45 )
Miss Betsy H--ds--n, _at Mrs. Kelly's,
Duke-Street, Saint James's_.
How dull the spring of life would prove,
Without the kiss that waits on love;
From youthful lips you soon receive
The richest harvest lips can give.
Eloped from her friends in the country
but a short time, flushed with all the
amorous fire of youth insatiate, and ripe
with every personal charm the heart of
man can wish, this pleasing girl enters
our list. The fresh country bloom still
remains unimpaired, the rural vivacity is
still the same, and united with a beauti-
ful skin and complexion, we can present
our readers with a temper and disposition
that good nature and affability must call
their own. Her teeth are regular, and
very white, her eyes of the most lively
hazel, which, without the least fire from
Bacchus, shoot the most powerful glances;
her hair a lovely brown, her breasts are
small and never have been sufficiently
subjected to manual pressure to deprive
them of their natural firmness; she is
willingly compliant to any liberty in
company, that does not extend beyond
the bounds of decency; but let nature
come
( 46 )
come forth _unadorned_, get once the
enchanting girl in bed, she _opens_ all her
charms, and gives a sudden loose to such
a bent of amorous passion, she would fire
the most torpid dispolition; when once
you press her in your eager arms the
game must instantly begin, and scarcely
does she allow an introductory kiss, so
uncurbed is her appetite, and so fond is
she of _repetition_, that she would with
every lover that passes a night with her
to be able to say with Ovid,
Fair Betsy knows, when numbering the delight
Not less than _nine_ full tranfports crown'd the
night.
Only six months has this child of love
dealed out her charms in public, but well
knowing their value, is not quite satisfied
if she does not receive on _paper_ a proof
of their excellence.
___________________________________
Miss Br--wn, No. 8, _Castle Street, Ox-
ford Market_.
Give me plenty of bub,
From the large brandy tub,
And I'll _spend_ the whole night in your arms,
I'll expose every part
Of my brown _apple cart_,
And stifle, quite stifle the _boy_ in its _charms_.
I hope none of our readers will proves a
Mr. L-d-tt, who, about six months ago,
from
( 47 )
from a mere silly quarrel with this his fa-
vourite fair, thought it convenient to fin-
ish his existence in the _leaden way_; she
does not possess either youth or novelty
sufficient to tempt many, to act in that
way, having been at least seven years a
trading nymph to our knowledge; she is
tall, and genteelly made, with a fine skin,
and beautiful flaxen hair, but is too fond
of the brandy bottle to give that sincere
delight, that _mutual interchange of souls_
so necessary to stamp the _extatic rapture_;
she may, however, prove to those that
will drink a glass with her, and has no
objection to become as merry as herself,
a desireable piece, as she is neither extra-
vagant in her demands, or nice in the
choicee of her admirers.
___________________________________
Mrs. D--f--ld, _at a Sadler's, Charles
Street, Soho_.
Then he began to rave and tear,
And swore once more he'd try the fair
To grace his notes he would take care,
She gave her kind consent.
He pitch'd the highest note he could,
And kept the stops just where he should,
Damon, says she, your musick's good,
And I am now content.
This lady, we are told, is remarkably
fond of musick, and there is no _tune_
within
( 48 )
within _compass of the flute_ but she plays
with the greatest dexterity; she is perfect
mistress of all the _graces_, is never _out_ in
_stopping_, and is full as well skilled in
_pricking_; altho' the principal part of her
_music_ is played in _duets_, and every _duet_
in a _natural key_, she has not the smallest
objection to _two flats_; she has a variety
of sweet notes, and many pleasing _airs_,
and generally chooses the lowest part;
every _shake and quaver_ she feels in-
stinctively, and sometimes has played the
same _tune_ over _twice_, before her partner
has gone through it once, without the
least deviation from true concord; she
does not allow of any _cross barrs_, and is
particularly partial to the _Tacit_ flute;
her moving stars are as black and as
round as the end of a _Crotchet_; no _flower
that blows is like_ her cheek, or _scatters such
perfume_ as her breath: no _advice can
controul her love; she does as she will with
her swain_, presses him _away to the copse_,
puts the _wanton God where the bee sucks into
her pleasant native plains_, soon after you
feel the _graceful move_ and find _how sweet
it is in the low-lands_; and should it be _in
sable night, she loves to restore the drooping
plant_, thinks _variety is charming_, and
always _gives one kind kiss before she parts_;
and
( 49 )
and as she is now only nineteen, can sing
a French as well as an English song, and
has a very good friend, whose name she at
present assumes: you must not approach
her shrine without being well fortifyed
with _root of all evil_.
___________________________________
Miss B--nd, No. 28, _Frith-Street_.
A rose-bud blows in either cheek,
Round which the lily makes its bed;
Two dimples sweet good nature speak,
And auburn ringlets deck her head.
Her heaving breasts pant keen desire,
Their blushing summits own the flame;
Her eyes seem wishing _something nigher_,
Her hand conducts it to the same.
Miss B--nd is a very genteel agreeable
little girl, and is distinguished more by
the elegancy of her dress, than the beauty
of her person, which might perhaps have
been ranked in the list of tolerable's, had
not the small-pox been quite so unkind;
she is, nevertheless, a desirable _well tem-
pered
( 50 )
pered piece_, and one that does not degrade
herself by her company or her actions;
she comes into our corps, in confequence
of her good keeper's leaving England,
and enlists a volunteer, in all the spright-
liness and vivacity of nineteen, with
beautiful auburn hair, and a pair of
pretty languishing blue peepers, that
seem at every glance to tell you how
nature stands affected below; nor will
those swimming luminaries deceive you;
_it_ is ever ready to receive the _well formed
tumid guest_, and as the _external crura_ en-
twine and press _home_ the _vigorous tool_, the
_internal crura_ embrace it, and presses out
the last _precious drops_ of the _vital fluid_,
which her hand, by stealth, conveyed to
the _treasure bags_ of nature, by tender
_squeezings_ seem to increase the undiscrib-
able rapture, at the _dye away moment_; in
short, during her performance of _venereal
rites_, she is all the heart of the most in-
flamed sensualist can wish, or any man
that has two spare guineas in his pocket,
can desire.
Miss
( 51 )
Miss Gr--n, No. 32, _Little Russel-Street_.
Strait a new heat return'd with his embrace,
Warmth to my blood and colour to my face;
Till at the length, with mutual kisses fir'd,)
To the last bliss we eagerly aspir'd, ]
And both alike attain'd, what both alike )
desir'd.
When beauty beats up for recruits, he
must be an errant coward indeed, who re-
fuses to enlist under its banner; and
when good humour, complaisance, and
engaging behaviour are the rewards of
service, it is shameful to desert. This
lady's charms attract most who behold
them; though of a low stature, and
rather under the middle size, she is ele-
gantly formed; her black eyes, contrasted
with her white teeth, are highly pleasing,
and the goodness of her temper rivets the
chains which her agreeable form first put
one. One guinea, is then, too poor a re-
compence for such merit; and it is to be
deplored, that a girl, who should only
exchange love for love, should be obliged
to take payment for what is ever beyond
price: in bed, she is by far the better
piece,
( 52 )
piece, and is up to every manoeuvre
necessary to restore life, and every
luscious _move_ to destroy; hands, tongue,
lips, legs, and every part of the busy
frame is engaged at once in the pleasing
task, and all to provoke and bring the
_soul breathing conflict_ to the _last extatic
gush_.
___________________________________
Mrs. D--d, No. 6, _Hind-court, Fleet
Street_.
---------------------- O my soul,
Whither, whither art thou flying,
Lost in sweet tumultuous dying?
You tremble love, and so do I!
Ah! stay, and we'll together dye;
My soul shall take her flight with thine
Life dissolving in delight,
Heaving breasts and swimming sight,
Faultering speech and gasping breath,
Symptoms of delicious death;
My soul is ready for the flight.
This lady appeared some years ago, to
our readers, under the name of Ogl--,
but as we have frequently seen, that a
girl, though young, may yet be very
disagreeable,
( 53 )
disagreeable, so we may conclude, from
Mrs. D--d, that a woman in years may
be perfectly alluring; she is, indeed,
turned of forty, rather fat and
short, yet she looks well, dresses neat,
and can divide as smartly covered, and
as neat a leg and foot as ever beat time
to _the silent flute_; her temper and be-
haviour are good, and if you are not soon
disposed for the attack, she will shew you
such a set of pictures, that very seldom
fails to alarm the sleeping _member_. Then
may you behold the _lovely fount_ of de-
light, reared on two pillars of monu-
menatal alabaster; the symmetry of its
parts, its _borders_ enriched with _wavering
tendrils_, its _ruby portals_, and the _tufted
grove_, that crowns the summit of the
mount, all join to invite the guest to
enter. The cordial reception he meets
therein, with the tide of _flowing bliss_,
more delicious than the boasted nectar
of the gods, engulph the raptured soul,
and set the lovely owner of the premisses,
above nine tenths of the green gew-
gaws that flutter about the town. If
discipline forms the soldier in the wars
of Mars, experience finishes the female
combatant in the skirmishes of Venus.
That experience this lady has,and is
per-
( 54 )
perfectly skilled in every delightful
manoeuvre, knowing how to keep time,
when to advance and retreat, to face to
the right or left, and when to _shower_
down a whole _volley_ of _love_; so that those
who are vanquished by her glory in their
defeat, pant only for returning vigour to
renew the combat; she is perfectly
mistress in the art of restoring life, and
performs the tender friction with a hand
soft as turtles down. Keeps the house,
and after giving you a whole night's en-
tertainment, is perfectly satisfyed, and
will give you a comfortable cup of tea in
the morning, for one pound one.
___________________________________
Miss Bl--ke, No. 74, _Castle Street,
Oxford Road_.
The soft desiring girl expects thy coming;
Busy in thought, and hasty for the hour,
She turns and sighs, and wishes, counts the
clock,
And every minute drags a heavy pace,
Till thou appear, the champion of the bed,
Arm'd at all points, and eager for the charge
That calls thee to the combat of thy love.
This lady's graceful figure, beautiful
face, dark hair, and ivory teeth, must
surely
( 55 )
surely win the heart of every one, who
is fortunate enough to get into her com-
pany, and make you pant for the en-
joyment of the more essential bliss; for
the performance of which, who indeed,
is better qualified? who is of a sweeter
temper? who can better twine in the en-
chanting folds of love? who can fill the
night with stranger raptures? few, if
any. Inslead of expecting two guineas
for the performance, we may rather
wonder at her moderation in not ex-
pecting more: and though she is per-
fectly charming when drest, yet we are
informed that her naked beauties are still
more enchanting; her lovely demi
globes of delight, with their ruby buds,
ravish the wondering eye. Descend still
lower to the _regions of happiness_, the _true
country of pleasure_, and there appear the
_flaxen tendrils_ wantonly playing over the
_mother of all saints_, whilst the _pouting
protuberances_ leave it doubtful which _lips_
better deserve the burning kiss; the ex-
tatic embrace both act in concert, and
charm with delightful unison; whilst
those _above_ murmur the transports of the
soul, those which are placed _below_, per-
form the delicious suction, which cannot
be resisted till every atom of the genial
juice
( 56 )
juice is drawn through its most natural
vent--that the man blest with enjoy-
ment, may cry out with Lee in his
_Caesar Borgia_,
---------O thou great chemise, nature,
Who draw'st one spirit so divinely perfect,
Thou mak'st a dreg of all the world beside.
Ireland lays claim to the honour of
giving birth to this charming girl, who
has not sported her figure in public
life more than ten months; indeed her
particular friend, the Captain, whose
name she has taken the liberty of
assuming, thinks her rather more honest
than we believe her to be; she is now
in her eighteenth year, dances well,
and is fond of frequenting public hops,
where, if her partner pleases her, for
two guineas she has no objection to
take him home, and return the com-
pliment, that is, provided the Captain,
is from town.
Miss
( 57 )
Miss M--nt--n, No. 55, _Berwick-Street,
Soho_.
Toil all the night, and at the approach of
morn,
When tir'd nature calls aloud for rest,
The wanton fair, a stranger to fatigue,
With eager fondness will renew the sport;
Entwine the busy limbs to force the joy,
Whilst through the parting lips, the playful
tongue,
The vital fire thro' every nerve propels,
And drown the senses in love's potent stream.
Would the amorous _devotee_ wish us
to say more, perhaps he may require
personal charms, even then he will not
be disappointed; she is of the brunette
cast, with fine languishing eyes, fine
even teeth, plump, well formed, pant-
ing bubbies, and as she has now only
entered into her nineteenth year, can-
not possibly have lost the transports
of _mutuality_; at present she trades the
independant lass, having no particular
friend
( 58 )
friend to humour or offend; she takes
her noon and evening excursions re-
gularly, and enjoys, with unfeigned rap-
ture, every man of pleasure that _en-
ters_ properly equipped for the sport;
and her love of variety, and her at-
tachment to the sport, is so very
prevalent, that, provided the gentle-
man's pocket is sufficiently armed,
there is not the least reason to fear she
then will meet him _midway_, with true
rapture, will _grasp_ the _pointed weapon_ with
genuine female fortitude, and urge him
_home_ with singular delight, _lesson_ his
_pride_ with becoming dignity, and ask
repeated pleasures.------It is now only
eight months we have been able to
call her _our own_, and as she seems sa-
tisfied with one guinea, would recom-
mend her as a _deserving_ peice.
___________________________________
Miss K--n, _Castle-Street, Oxford Market_.
"Let _Nature_ empty her whole quiver in me,
"I have a _part_, which, like an ample shield,
Can _take in all_, and yet leave room for more.
This lady assumed the name, she at
present goes by, from motives of con-
cealment
( 59 )
cealment in her _sportive_ profession, in
which the drives a good trade, and is
very much lik'd by the _beaux esprits_ of
the age for her _spunk_, being remarkably
full of Cyprian Spirit, many degrees
above any proof it has ever been put to;
so that for the power of her parts, and
active ability, she could match Turk
Gregory; and when she had him in her
tenacious arms, he might perform the
amorous feat within the _magic circle_ of her
charms, till even strength, like his, was
_spent_, and nature quite exhausted of all
her balmy store, whilst she, untired, and
springing from the bed, would ask a fresh
attack, and still give pleasure in the warm
embrace; she is of a dark complexion,
with a wide mouth, and extraordinary
well formed for a winter's companion.
She has no pretensions to beauty, but
founds her claims to public favour on in-
ternal merit, and her _capacity_ and skill in
the rites of Venus, appealing rather to
the sense of touch, than that of sight; she
is in general to be met with at a favourite
hop, at the west end of the town, and if
Mr. B--rd should not be there, you may
gain the liberty of attending her home,
and the will thank you for half a guinea.
Mrs.
( 60 )
Mrs. H--rv--y, No. 21, _Queen Ann
Street East_.
Behold those eyes that swim in humid fires,
And trace her wanton thoughts and young
desires;
Taste those sweet lips, with balmy Nectar
fraught,
And all the rich luxuriancy of thought:
Press her soft bosom--seat of swelling joy,
Whose charms invite the rosy pinion'd boy;
Who, fluttering here, may point the unerring
dart,
Flash in each eye, and revel in each heart,
Till bolder grown, your hand insatiate rove,
O'er her delightful _mount_ and _sportive grove_;
Then all her limbs unbound, her girdle loose,
There's nothing you can ask her, she'll refuse.
The above lines, from one of the
warmest and most elegant poets fancy
ever favoured, might be very justly ap-
plied to this charming girl. Rich with
the glow of youth, and the charms of a
person, in which nature has been lavishly
bountiful, she possesses a mind rarely,
very rarely met with in the frail
daughters of pleasure; generous, free-
hearted,
( 61 )
hearted, noble, feeling, and disinterested,
might appear to be too high sounding
epithets for a woman of this dercription.
But however strange, it is not less strange
than true; for she possesses qualities,
which the want of, might make many a
titled dame, poessessed of that single virtue,
(or at least appearing to possess it) that
she has unfortunately lost,--blush, for
they may all with the strictest truth be
applied to her. Here then, may the
man come, (nay, we advise him to) who
wishes in the morning, succeedimg a de-
licious night, to find his person and his
purse safe, and his health uninjured;
here may he come, and taste every joy
the most luscious desire can wish; here
may his very sense be fed, nor know
satiety, for joined to a beautiful face, an
elegant form, and a graceful manner,
you win find the agreeable companion,
the good humoured girl, and the most
enchanting bedfellow; young, and not
more than three months _on_ the town, or
_in_ the town, fine hazel love-swimming
eyes, and dark brown hair, which left to
twine in nature's wanton folds, plays
loosely over a neck white as snow un-
sunned, and sweetly shades the most en-
chanting _love hillocks_ nature ever planted
_below_
( 62 )
_below_, a jetty _black_ surrounds the _pouting
mansion_, rais'd on a pair of pillars that
might _shame_ the _whitest_, or mark the
smoothest alabaster, that twine in the
amorous encounter, and seem to partake
of that pleasure in the dye-away moment,
that we cannot pretend to set any value
upon.
___________________________________
Mrs. Ch--sh--line, No. 36, _Titchfield
Street_.
Reclin'd upon a couch the maiden lay,
And all her virgin charms expos'd to view;
I saw them all, unseen, and in her eyes
Read the mad language of untaught desire.
This Mrs. C------ may say, when
She first seduced this _then_ lovely girl from
the boarding school, and taught her wil-
ling mind the use of that _machine_, her
amorous desires so ardently wished for.--
She is the daughter of a banker in the
city, and might have remained with her
first undoer for many years longer, had
not her itch for _variety_, and the brandy
bottle, got the better of every sub-
servience due to a keeper. Now arrived
at the full age of twenty-six, with fine
sparkling
( 63 )
sparkling blue eyes, genteel tall figure,
her breasts rather full but not less firm,
very fair, and contrasted beautifully by
the blue branching veins which surround
every part; apparently light brown hair,
but so covered with powder that the colour
is doubtful; of a sprightly and amorous
disposition, and a very warm temper,
especially when _tempered_ by her favorite
liquor, of which she loves to take large
and copious libations, ever desirous of
seeing the bottom. Her price is moderate,
the smallest piece being as much as she
in general expects.
___________________________________
Miss M--rr--s, No 59, _South Mortimer
Street, Oxford Road_.
"Methinks I wish, and wish for what I know
not,
"But still I wish,--yet, if I had that woman,
"She I believe could tell me what I wish for.
Should the man of pleasure take a
nocturnal ramble _into_ this lady's lodgings,
and be happy enough to find her at home
and alone, he need not wish himself for
that night under the influence of any
other star than that of _Venus_; as she will
very
( 64 )
very agreeably make the dulest hours to
pass away with the soft music of love,
and beat time to its _silent_ harmony in all
the luxury of soft delight; she is of a
fine brunette complexion, hazel eyes,
which beam inexpressibly sweet, remarka-
ble fine teeth, plump firm bubbies, and
a stately carriage; she dances well, and
is amiable in her temper, lively in her
disposition, and carries good-nature in all
_her actions_; nor does she neglect any
thing in her power to please her visitors.
Her price is from two guineas upwards,
to any sum the gentleman she obliges
thinks she merits; which at the blooming
age of twenty cannot be too much. Had
she less partiality for a certain hair dresser,
we think she would be more pleasing to
the generality of her visitors.
___________________________________
Miss Elizabeth W--tk--ns, _Little
Chesterfield-Street_.
Loves subtle fluid, and life's thrilling kiss
Glide thro' her frame, and speak the coming
bliss.
In this age of gallantry and pleasure,
when epicurism is so much practised,
and
( 65 )
and variety so much sought after, we are
happy in being able to serve up a dish to
every palate, and here present our readers
with as delicious a one (that is when she
does not smell of brandy) as would be
provided by the hand of luxury itself,
and stimulate the most languid appetite
to fall on with the greatest _gou_; for in
Betsy is comprised an epitome of delight,
rather above mediocrity in her size, fine
dark eyes and hair, and a fine durable
complexion, and teeth that needs not the
dentist nor his dentrifice; and a pair of
tempting full formed breasts, made for
the swelling yielding joy, and to send the
murmurring sigh of rapture to the breath-
ing trembling lips; and at the critical
juncture of supreme pleasure, her whole
spirit seems to dissolve within her, weep
thro' all her frame with exquisitely
thrilling languor, and _pour down_ to
the _centrical
|
me again!
I admit that it cost me an effort, this time, to turn on my pursuer.
There was something uncanny in that persistent, elusive footstep,
and indeed there was something alarming in my circumstances, dogged
thus from place to place, and unable to shake off my enemy, or to
understand his movements or his motive. Turn I did, however, and
straightway the shuffling step went off at a hastened pace in the
shadow of the gate. This time I made no more than half-a-dozen steps
back. I turned again, and pushed my way to the hotel. And as I went the
shuffling step came after.
The thing was serious. There must be some object in this unceasing
watching, and the object could bode no good to me. Plainly some unseen
eye had been on me the whole of that day, had noted my goings and
comings and my journey from Chester. Again, and irresistibly, the
watchings that preceded my father's death came to mind, and I could not
forget them. I could have no doubt now that I had been closely watched
from the moment I had set foot at Plymouth. But who could have been
waiting to watch me at Plymouth, when indeed I had only decided to land
at the last moment? Then I thought of the two Italian forecastle hands
on the steamer--the very men whom Dorrington had used to illustrate
in what unexpected quarters members of the terrible Italian secret
societies might be found. And the Camorra was not satisfied with single
revenge; it destroyed the son after the father, and it waited for many
years, with infinite patience and cunning.
Dogged by the steps, I reached the hotel and went to bed. I slept but
fitfully at first, though better rest came as the night wore on. In
the early morning I woke with a sudden shock, and with an indefinite
sense of being disturbed by somebody about me. The window was directly
opposite the foot of the bed, and there, as I looked, was the face of
a man, dark, evil, and grinning, with a bush of black hair about his
uncovered head, and small rings in his ears.
It was but a flash, and the face vanished. I was struck by the terror
that one so often feels on a sudden and violent awakening from sleep,
and it was some seconds ere I could leave my bed and get to the
window. My room was on the first floor, and the window looked down on
a stable-yard. I had a momentary glimpse of a human figure leaving the
gate of the yard, and it was the figure that had fled before me in
the Rows, at Chester. A ladder belonging to the yard stood under the
window, and that was all.
I rose and dressed; I could stand this sort of thing no longer. If
it were only something tangible, if there were only somebody I could
take hold of, and fight with if necessary, it would not have been so
bad. But I was surrounded by some mysterious machination, persistent,
unexplainable, that it was altogether impossible to tackle or to face.
To complain to the police would have been absurd--they would take me
for a lunatic. They are indeed just such complaints that lunatics so
often make to the police--complaints of being followed by indefinite
enemies, and of being besieged by faces that look in at windows.
Even if they did not set me down a lunatic, what could the police of
a provincial town do for me in a case like this? No, I must go and
consult Dorrington.
I had my breakfast, and then decided that I would at any rate try the
castle before leaving. Try it I did accordingly, and was allowed to go
over it. But through the whole morning I was oppressed by the horrible
sense of being watched by malignant eyes. Clearly there was no comfort
for me while this lasted; so after lunch I caught a train which brought
me to Euston soon after half-past six.
I took a cab straight to Dorrington's rooms, but he was out, and was
not expected home till late. So I drove to a large hotel near Charing
Cross--I avoid mentioning its name for reasons which will presently be
understood--sent in my bag, and dined.
I had not the smallest doubt but that I was still under the observation
of the man or the men who had so far pursued me; I had, indeed, no
hope of eluding them, except by the contrivance of Dorrington's
expert brain. So as I had no desire to hear that shuffling footstep
again--indeed it had seemed, at Warwick, to have a physically painful
effect on my nerves--I stayed within and got to bed early.
I had no fear of waking face to face with a grinning Italian here. My
window was four floors up, out of reach of anything but a fire-escape.
And, in fact, I woke comfortably and naturally, and saw nothing from
my window but the bright sky, the buildings opposite, and the traffic
below. But as I turned to close my door behind me as I emerged into the
corridor, there, on the muntin of the frame, just below the bedroom
number, was a little round paper label, perhaps a trifle smaller than a
sixpence, and on the label, drawn awkwardly in ink, was a device of two
crossed knives of curious, crooked shape. The sign of the Camorra!
I will not attempt to describe the effect of this sign upon me. It
may best be imagined, in view of what I have said of the incidents
preceding the murder of my father. It was the sign of an inexorable
fate, creeping nearer step by step, implacable, inevitable, and
mysterious. In little more than twelve hours after seeing that sign my
father had been a mangled corpse. One of the hotel servants passed as I
stood by the door, and I made shift to ask him if he knew anything of
the label. He looked at the paper, and then, more curiously, at me, but
he could offer no explanation. I spent little time over breakfast, and
then went by cab to Conduit Street. I paid my bill and took my bag with
me.
Dorrington had gone to his office, but he had left a message that if
I called I was to follow him; and the office was in Bedford Street,
Covent Garden. I turned the cab in that direction forthwith.
"Why," said Dorrington as we shook hands, "I believe you look a bit out
of sorts! Doesn't England agree with you?"
"Well," I answered, "it has proved rather trying so far." And then I
described, in exact detail, my adventures as I have set them down here.
Dorrington looked grave. "It's really extraordinary," he said, "most
extraordinary; and it isn't often that I call a thing extraordinary
neither, with my experience. But it's plain something must be
done--something to gain time at any rate. We're in the dark at present,
of course, and I expect I shall have to fish about a little before I
get at anything to go on. In the meantime I think you must disappear
as artfully as we can manage it." He sat silent for a little while,
thoughtfully tapping his forehead with his finger-tips. "I wonder," he
said presently, "whether or not those Italian fellows on the steamer
_are_ in it or not. I suppose you haven't made yourself known anywhere,
have you?"
"Nowhere. As you know, you've been with me all the time till you left
the moor, and since then I have been with nobody and called on nobody."
"Now there's no doubt it's the Camorra," Dorrington said--"that's
pretty plain. I think I told you on the steamer that it was rather
wonderful that you had heard nothing of them after your father's death.
What has caused them all this delay there's no telling--they know
best themselves; it's been lucky for you, anyway, so far. What I'd
like to find out now is how they have identified you, and got on your
track so promptly. There's no guessing where these fellows get their
information--it's just wonderful; but if we can find out, then perhaps
we can stop the supply, or turn on something that will lead them into a
pit. If you had called anywhere on business and declared yourself--as
you might have done, for instance, at Mowbray's--I might be inclined to
suspect that they got the tip in some crooked way from there. But you
haven't. Of course, if those Italian chaps on the steamer _are_ in it,
you're probably identified pretty certainly; but if they're not, they
may only have made a guess. We two landed together, and kept together,
till a day or two ago; as far as any outsider would know, I might be
Rigby and you might be Dorrington. Come, we'll work on those lines. I
think I smell a plan. Are you staying anywhere?"
"No. I paid my bill at the hotel and came along here with my bag."
"Very well. Now there's a house at Highgate kept by a very trustworthy
man, whom I know very well, where a man might be pretty comfortable
for a few days, or even for a week, if he doesn't mind staying indoors,
and keeping himself out of sight. I expect your friends of the Camorra
are watching in the street outside at this moment; but I think it will
be fairly easy to get you away to Highgate without letting them into
the secret, if you don't mind secluding yourself for a bit. In the
circumstances, I take it you won't object at all?"
"Object? I should think not."
"Very well, that's settled. You can call yourself Dorrington or not, as
you please, though perhaps it will be safest not to shout 'Rigby' too
loud. But as for myself, for a day or two at least I'm going to be Mr.
James Rigby. Have you your card-case handy?"
"Yes, here it is. But then, as to taking my name, won't you run serious
risk?"
Dorrington winked merrily. "I've run a risk or two before now," he
said, "in course of my business. And if _I_ don't mind the risk, you
needn't grumble, for I warn you I shall charge for risk when I send you
my bill. And I think I can take care of myself fairly well, even with
the Camorra about. I shall take you to this place at Highgate, and then
you won't see me for a few days. It won't do for me, in the character
of Mr. James Rigby, to go dragging a trail up and down between this
place and your retreat. You've got some other identifying papers,
haven't you?"
"Yes, I have." I produced the letter from my Sydney lawyers to Mowbray,
and the deeds of the South Australian property from my bag.
"Ah," said Dorrington, "I'll just give you a formal receipt for these,
since they're valuable; it's a matter of business, and we'll do it in
a business-like way. I may want something solid like this to support
any bluff I may have to make. A mere case of cards won't always act,
you know. It's a pity old Mowbray's out of town, for there's a way in
which he might give a little help, I fancy. But never mind--leave it
all to me. There's your receipt. Keep it snug away somewhere, where
inquisitive people can't read it."
He handed me the receipt, and then took me to his partner's room
and introduced me. Mr. Hicks was a small, wrinkled man, older than
Dorrington, I should think, by fifteen or twenty years, and with all
the aspect and manner of a quiet old professional man.
Dorrington left the room, and presently returned with his hat in his
hand. "Yes," he said, "there's a charming dark gentleman with a head
like a mop, and rings in his ears, skulking about at the next corner.
If it was he who looked in at your window, I don't wonder you were
startled. His dress suggests the organ-grinding interest, but he looks
as though cutting a throat would be more in his line than grinding a
tune; and no doubt he has friends as engaging as himself close at call.
If you'll come with me now I think we shall give him the slip. I have
a growler ready for you--a hansom's a bit too glassy and public. Pull
down the blinds and sit back when you get inside."
He led me to a yard at the back of the building wherein the office
stood, from which a short flight of steps led to a basement. We
followed a passage in this basement till we reached another flight, and
ascending these, we emerged into the corridor of another building. Out
at the door at the end of this, and we passed a large block of model
dwellings, and were in Bedfordbury. Here a four-wheeler was waiting,
and I shut myself in it without delay.
I was to proceed as far as King's Cross in this cab, Dorrington had
arranged, and there he would overtake me in a swift hansom. It fell out
as he had settled, and, dismissing the hansom, he came the rest of the
journey with me in the four-wheeler.
We stopped at length before one of a row of houses, apparently recently
built--houses of the over-ornamented, gabled and tiled sort that abound
in the suburbs.
"Crofting is the man's name," Dorrington said, as we alighted. "He's
rather an odd sort of customer, but quite decent in the main, and his
wife makes coffee such as money won't buy in most places."
A woman answered Dorrington's ring--a woman of most extreme thinness.
Dorrington greeted her as Mrs. Crofting, and we entered.
"We've just lost our servant again, Mr. Dorrington," the woman said in
a shrill voice, "and Mr. Crofting ain't at home. But I'm expecting him
before long."
"I don't think I need wait to see him, Mrs. Crofting," Dorrington
answered. "I'm sure I can't leave my friend in better hands than yours.
I hope you've a vacant room?"
"Well, for a friend of yours, Mr. Dorrington, no doubt we can find
room."
"That's right. My friend Mr."--Dorrington gave me a meaning look--"Mr.
Phelps, would like to stay here for a few days. He wants to be quite
quiet for a little--do you understand?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Dorrington, I understand."
"Very well, then, make him as comfortable as you can, and give him
some of your very best coffee. I believe you've got quite a little
library of books, and Mr. Phelps will be glad of them. Have you got any
cigars?" Dorrington added, turning to me.
"Yes; there are some in my bag."
"Then I think you'll be pretty comfortable now. Goodbye. I expect
you'll see me in a few days--or at any rate you'll get a message.
Meantime be as happy as you can."
Dorrington left, and the woman showed me to a room upstairs, where I
placed my bag. In front, on the same floor, was a sitting-room, with,
I suppose, some two or three hundred books, mostly novels, on shelves.
The furniture of the place was of the sort one expects to find in an
ordinary lodging-house--horsehair sofas, loo tables, lustres, and so
forth. Mrs. Crofting explained to me that the customary dinner hour
was two, but that I might dine when I liked. I elected, however, to
follow the custom of the house, and sat down to a cigar and a book.
At two o'clock the dinner came, and I was agreeably surprised to find
it a very good one, much above what the appointments of the house had
led me to expect. Plainly Mrs. Crofting was a capital cook. There
was no soup, but there was a very excellent sole, and some well-done
cutlets with peas, and an omelet; also a bottle of Bass. Come, I felt
that I should not do so badly in this place after all. I trusted that
Dorrington would be as comfortable in his half of the transaction,
bearing my responsibilities and troubles. I had heard a heavy,
blundering tread on the floor below, and judged from this that Mr.
Crofting had returned.
After dinner I lit a cigar, and Mrs. Crofting brought her coffee. Truly
it was excellent coffee, and brewed as I like it--strong and black,
and plenty of it. It had a flavour of its own too, novel, but not
unpleasing. I took one cupful, and brought another to my side as I lay
on the sofa with my book. I had not read six lines before I was asleep.
I woke with a sensation of numbing cold in my right side, a terrible
stiffness in my limbs, and a sound of loud splashing in my ears. All
was pitch dark, and--what was this? Water! Water all about me. I was
lying in six inches of cold water, and more was pouring down upon me
from above. My head was afflicted with a splitting ache. But where was
I? Why was it dark? And whence all the water? I staggered to my feet,
and instantly struck my head against a hard roof above me. I raised my
hand; there was the roof or whatever place it was, hard, smooth and
cold, and little more than five feet from the floor, so that I bent as
I stood. I spread my hand to the side; that was hard, smooth and cold
too. And then the conviction struck me like a blow--I was in a covered
iron tank, and the water was pouring in to drown me!
I dashed my hands frantically against the lid, and strove to raise it.
It would not move. I shouted at the top of my voice, and turned about
to feel the extent of my prison. One way I could touch the opposite
sides at once easily with my hands, the other way it was wider--perhaps
a little more than six feet altogether. What was this? Was this to be
my fearful end, cooped in this tank while the water rose by inches
to choke me? Already the water was a foot deep. I flung myself at the
sides, I beat the pitiless iron with fists, face and head, I screamed
and implored. Then it struck me that I might at least stop the inlet
of water. I put out my hand and felt the falling stream, then found
the inlet and stopped it with my fingers. But water still poured in
with a resounding splash; there was another opening at the opposite
end, which I could not reach without releasing the one I now held! I
was but prolonging my agony. Oh, the devilish cunning that had devised
those two inlets, so far apart! Again I beat the sides, broke my nails
with tearing at the corners, screamed and entreated in my agony. I was
mad, but with no dulling of the senses, for the horrors of my awful,
helpless state, overwhelmed my brain, keen and perceptive to every
ripple of the unceasing water.
In the height of my frenzy I held my breath, for I heard a sound from
outside. I shouted again--implored some quicker death. Then there was a
scraping on the lid above me, and it was raised at one edge, and let in
the light of a candle. I sprang from my knees and forced the lid back,
and the candle flame danced before me. The candle was held by a dusty
man, a workman apparently, who stared at me with scared eyes, and said
nothing but, "Goo' lor'!"
Overhead were the rafters of a gabled roof, and tilted against them was
the thick beam which, jammed across from one sloping rafter to another,
had held the tank-lid fast. "Help me!" I gasped. "Help me out!"
The man took me by the armpits and hauled me, dripping and half dead,
over the edge of the tank, into which the water still poured, making
a noise in the hollow iron that half drowned our voices. The man had
been at work on the cistern of a neighbouring house, and hearing an
uncommon noise, he had climbed through the spaces left in the party
walls to give passage along under the roofs to the builders' men. Among
the joists at our feet was the trap-door through which, drugged and
insensible, I had been carried, to be flung into that horrible cistern.
With the help of my friend the workman I made shift to climb through
by the way he had come. We got back to the house where he had been at
work, and there the people gave me brandy and lent me dry clothes. I
made haste to send for the police, but when they arrived Mrs. Crofting
and her respectable spouse had gone. Some unusual noise in the roof
must have warned them. And when the police, following my directions
further, got to the offices of Dorrington and Hicks, those acute
professional men had gone too, but in such haste that the contents of
the office, papers and everything else, had been left just as they
stood.
The plot was clear now. The followings, the footsteps, the face at
the window, the label on the door--all were a mere humbug arranged by
Dorrington for his own purpose, which was to drive me into his power
and get my papers from me. Armed with these, and with his consummate
address and knowledge of affairs, he could go to Mr. Mowbray in the
character of Mr. James Rigby, sell my land in South Australia, and
have the whole of my property transferred to himself from Sydney.
The rest of my baggage was at his rooms; if any further proof were
required it might be found there. He had taken good care that I should
not meet Mr. Mowbray--who, by the way, I afterwards found had not
left his office, and had never fired a gun in his life. At first I
wondered that Dorrington had not made some murderous attempt on me
at the shooting place in Scotland. But a little thought convinced me
that that would have been bad policy for him. The disposal of the
body would be difficult, and he would have to account somehow for my
sudden disappearance. Whereas, by the use of his Italian assistant and
his murder apparatus at Highgate I was made to efface my own trail,
and could be got rid of in the end with little trouble; for my body,
stripped of everything that might identify me, would be simply that
of a drowned man unknown, whom nobody could identify. The whole plot
was contrived upon the information I myself had afforded Dorrington
during the voyage home. And it all sprang from his remembering the
report of my father's death. When the papers in the office came to
be examined, there each step in the operations was plainly revealed.
There was a code telegram from Suez directing Hicks to hire a grouse
moor. There were telegrams and letters from Scotland giving directions
as to the later movements; indeed the thing was displayed completely.
The business of Dorrington and Hicks had really been that of private
inquiry agents, and they had done much _bonâ fide_ business; but
many of their operations had been of a more than questionable sort.
And among their papers were found complete sets, neatly arranged in
dockets, each containing in skeleton a complete history of a case.
Many of these cases were of a most interesting character, and I have
been enabled to piece together, out of the material thus supplied, the
narratives which will follow this. As to my own case, it only remains
to say that as yet neither Dorrington, Hicks, nor the Croftings have
been caught. They played in the end for a high stake (they might have
made six figures of me if they had killed me, and the first figure
would not have been a one) and they lost by a mere accident. But I have
often wondered how many of the bodies which the coroners' juries of
London have returned to be "Found Drowned" were drowned, not where they
were picked up, but in that horrible tank at Highgate. What the drug
was that gave Mrs. Crofting's coffee its value in Dorrington's eyes I
do not know, but plainly it had not been sufficient in my case to keep
me unconscious against the shock of cold water till I could be drowned
altogether. Months have passed since my adventure, but even now I sweat
at the sight of an iron tank.
_THE CASE OF JANISSARY_
II
The Case of Janissary
I
In this case (and indeed in most of the others) the notes and other
documents found in the dockets would, by themselves, give but a faint
outline of the facts, and, indeed, might easily be unintelligible
to many people, especially as for much of my information I have
been indebted to outside inquiries. Therefore I offer no excuse for
presenting the whole thing digested into plain narrative form, with
little reference to my authorities. Though I knew none of the actors
in it, with the exception of the astute Dorrington, the case was
especially interesting to me, as will be gathered from the narrative
itself.
The only paper in the bundle which I shall particularly allude to was
a newspaper cutting, of a date anterior by nine or ten months to the
events I am to write of. It had evidently been cut at the time it
appeared, and saved, in case it might be useful, in a box in the form
of a book, containing many hundreds of others. From this receptacle it
had been taken, and attached to the bundle during the progress of the
case. I may say at once that the facts recorded had no direct concern
with the case of the horse Janissary, but had been useful in affording
a suggestion to Dorrington in connection therewith. The matter is the
short report of an ordinary sort of inquest, and I here transcribe it.
"Dr. McCulloch held an inquest yesterday on the body of Mr. Henry
Lawrence, whose body was found on Tuesday morning last in the river
near Vauxhall Bridge. The deceased was well known in certain sporting
circles. Sophia Lawrence, the widow, said that deceased had left home
on Monday afternoon at about five, in his usual health, saying that he
was to dine at a friend's, and she saw nothing more of him till called
upon to identify the body. He had no reason for suicide, and so far as
witness knew, was free from pecuniary embarrassments. He had, indeed,
been very successful in betting recently. He habitually carried a
large pocket-book, with papers in it. Mr. Robert Naylor, commission
agent, said that deceased dined with him that evening at his house in
Gold Street, Chelsea, and left for home at about half-past eleven. He
had at the time a sum of nearly four hundred pounds upon him, chiefly
in notes, which had been paid him by witness in settlement of a bet.
It was a fine night, and deceased walked in the direction of Chelsea
Embankment. That was the last witness saw of him. He might not have
been perfectly sober, but he was not drunk, and was capable of taking
care of himself. The evidence of the Thames police went to show that
no money was on the body when found, except a few coppers, and no
pocket-book. Dr. William Hodgetts said that death was due to drowning.
There were some bruises on the arms and head which might have been
caused before death. The body was a very healthy one. The coroner said
that there seemed to be a very strong suspicion of foul play, unless
the pocket-book of the deceased had got out of his pocket in the water;
but the evidence was very meagre, although the police appeared to have
made every possible inquiry. The jury returned a verdict of 'Found
Drowned, though how the deceased came into the water there was no
evidence to show.'"
I know no more of the unfortunate man Lawrence than this, and I have
only printed the cutting here because it probably induced Dorrington to
take certain steps in the case I am dealing with. With that case the
fate of the man Lawrence has nothing whatever to do. He passes out of
the story entirely.
II
Mr. Warren Telfer was a gentleman of means, and the owner of a
few--very few--racehorses. But he had a great knack of buying hidden
prizes in yearlings, and what his stable lacked in quantity it often
more than made up for in quality. Thus he had once bought a St. Leger
winner for as little as a hundred and fifty pounds. Many will remember
his bitter disappointment of ten or a dozen years back, when his horse,
Matfelon, starting an odds-on favourite for the Two Thousand, never
even got among the crowd, and ambled in streets behind everything. It
was freely rumoured (and no doubt with cause) that Matfelon had been
"got at" and in some way "nobbled." There were hints of a certain
bucket of water administered just before the race--a bucket of water
observed in the hands, some said of one, some said of another person
connected with Ritter's training establishment. There was no suspicion
of pulling, for plainly the jockey was doing his best with the animal
all the way along, and never had a tight rein. So a nobbling it must
have been, said the knowing ones, and Mr. Warren Telfer said so too,
with much bitterness. More, he immediately removed his horses from
Ritter's stables, and started a small training place of his own for his
own horses merely; putting an old steeplechase jockey in charge, who
had come out of a bad accident permanently lame, and had fallen on evil
days.
The owner was an impulsive and violent-tempered man, who, once a
notion was in his head, held to it through everything, and in spite of
everything. His misfortune with Matfelon made him the most insanely
distrustful man alive. In everything he fancied he saw a trick, and
to him every man seemed a scoundrel. He could scarce bear to let the
very stable-boys touch his horses, and although for years all went as
well as could be expected in his stables, his suspicious distrust lost
nothing of its virulence. He was perpetually fussing about the stables,
making surprise visits, and laying futile traps that convicted nobody.
The sole tangible result of this behaviour was a violent quarrel
between Mr. Warren Telfer and his nephew Richard, who had been making
a lengthened stay with his uncle. Young Telfer, to tell the truth, was
neither so discreet nor so exemplary in behaviour as he might have
been, but his temper was that characteristic of the family, and when he
conceived that his uncle had an idea that he was communicating stable
secrets to friends outside, there was an animated row, and the nephew
betook himself and his luggage somewhere else. Young Telfer always
insisted, however, that his uncle was not a bad fellow on the whole,
though he had habits of thought and conduct that made him altogether
intolerable at times. But the uncle had no good word for his graceless
nephew; and indeed Richard Telfer betted more than he could afford,
and was not so particular in his choice of sporting acquaintances as a
gentleman should have been.
Mr. Warren Telfer's house, "Blackhall," and his stables were little
more than two miles from Redbury, in Hampshire; and after the
quarrel Mr. Richard Telfer was not seen near the place for many
months--not, indeed, till excitement was high over the forthcoming
race for the Redbury Stakes, for which there was an entry from the
stable--Janissary, for long ranked second favourite; and then the
owner's nephew did not enter the premises, and, in fact, made his visit
as secret as possible.
I have said that Janissary was long ranked second favourite for the
Redbury Stakes, but a little more than a week before the race he became
first favourite, owing to a training mishap to the horse fancied first,
which made its chances so poor that it might have been scratched at any
moment. And so far was Janissary above the class of the field (though
it was a two-year-old race, and there might be a surprise) that it
at once went to far shorter odds than the previous favourite, which,
indeed, had it run fit and well, would have found Janissary no easy
colt to beat.
Mr. Telfer's nephew was seen near the stables but two or three days
before the race, and that day the owner despatched a telegram to the
firm of Dorrington & Hicks. In response to this telegram, Dorrington
caught the first available train for Redbury, and was with Mr. Warren
Telfer in his library by five in the afternoon.
"It is about my horse Janissary that I want to consult you, Mr.
Dorrington," said Mr. Telfer. "It's right enough now--or at least was
right at exercise this morning--but I feel certain that there's some
diabolical plot on hand somewhere to interfere with the horse before
the Redbury Stakes day, and I'm sorry to have to say that I suspect
my own nephew to be mixed up in it in some way. In the first place I
may tell you that there is no doubt whatever that the colt, if let
alone, and bar accident, can win in a canter. He could have won even
if Herald, the late favourite, had kept well, for I can tell you that
Janissary is a far greater horse than anybody is aware of outside my
establishment--or at any rate, than anybody ought to be aware of,
if the stable secrets are properly kept. His pedigree is nothing
very great, and he never showed his quality till quite lately, in
private trials. Of course it has leaked out somehow that the colt is
exceptionally good--I don't believe I can trust a soul in the place.
How should the price have gone up to five to four unless somebody had
been telling what he's paid not to tell? But that isn't all, as I have
said. I've a conviction that something's on foot--somebody wants to
interfere with the horse. Of course we get a tout about now and again,
but the downs are pretty big, and we generally manage to dodge them
if we want to. On the last three or four mornings, however, wherever
Janissary might be taking his gallop, there was a big, hulking fellow,
with a red beard and spectacles--not so much watching the horse as
trying to get hold of the lad. I am always up and out at five, for I've
found to my cost--you remember about Matfelon--that if a man doesn't
want to be ramped he must never take his eye off things. Well, I have
scarcely seen the lad ease the colt once on the last three or four
mornings without that red-bearded fellow bobbing up from a knoll, or a
clump of bushes, or something, close by--especially if Janissary was
a bit away from the other horses, and not under my nose, or the head
lad's, for a moment. I rode at the fellow, of course, when I saw what
he was after, but he was artful as a cartload of monkeys, and vanished
somehow before I could get near him. The head lad believes he has seen
him about just after dark, too; but I am keeping the stable lads in
when they're not riding, and I suppose he finds he has no chance of
getting at them except when they're out with the horses. This morning,
not only did I see this fellow about, as usual, but, I am ashamed to
say, I observed my own nephew acting the part of a common tout. He
certainly had the decency to avoid me and clear out, but that was
not all, as you shall see. This morning, happening to approach the
stables from the back, I suddenly came upon the red-bearded man--giving
money to a groom of mine! He ran off at once, as you may guess, and I
discharged the groom where he stood, and would not allow him into the
stables again. He offered no explanation or excuse, but took himself
off, and half an hour afterward I almost sent away my head boy too.
For when I told him of the dismissal, he admitted
|
icism. There arose, some time ago, as part of the scientific and
critical movement of the last forty years, a desire to know and record
accurately the early life of peoples, pastoral, agricultural and in
towns, and the beginning of their arts and knowledges; and not only
their origins, but the whole history of their development. A close,
critical investigation was made of the origins of each people; accurate
knowledge, derived from contemporary documents, of their life, laws,
customs and language was attained; the facts of their history were
separated from their mythical and legendary elements; the dress, the
looks of men, the climate of the time, the physical aspects of their
country--all the skeleton of things was fitted together, bone to bone.
And for a good while this merely critical school held the field. It did
admirable and necessary work.
But when it was done, art claimed its place in this work. The desire
sprang up among historians to conceive all this history in the
imagination, to shape vividly its scenery, to animate and individualise
its men and women, to paint the life of the human soul in it, to clothe
it in flesh and blood, to make its feet move and its eyes flash--but to
do all these things within the limits of the accurate knowledge which
historical criticism had defined. "Let us saturate ourselves," said the
historians, "with clear knowledge of the needful facts, and then,
without violation of our knowledge, imagine the human life, the
landscape, the thinking and feeling of a primæval man, of his early
religion, of his passions; of Athens when the Persian came, of Rome when
the Republic was passing into the Empire, of a Provincial in Spain or
Britain, of a German town in the woods by the river. Let us see in
imagination as well as in knowledge an English settlement on the Welsh
border, an Italian mediæval town when its art was being born, a Jewish
village when Christ wandered into its streets, a musician or a painter's
life at a time when Greek art was decaying, or when a new impulse like
the Renaissance or the French Revolution came upon the world." When that
effort of the historians had established itself, and we have seen it
from blossoming to fruitage, people began to wonder that no poet had
ever tried to do this kind of work. It seemed eminently fitted for a
poet's hand, full of subjects alluring to the penetrative imagination.
It needed, of course, some scholarship, for it demanded accuracy in its
grasp of the main ideas of the time to be represented; but that being
given, immense opportunities remained for pictures of human life, full
of colour, thought and passions; for subtle and brilliant
representations of the eternal desires and thinkings of human nature as
they were governed by the special circumstances of the time in which the
poem was placed; and for the concentration into a single poem, gathered
round one person, of the ideas whose new arrival formed a crisis in the
history of art.
Men looked for this in Tennyson and did not find it. His Greek and
mediæval poems were modernised. Their imaginative work was uncritical.
But when the historians and the critics of art and of religious
movements happened at last to look into Browning, they discovered, to
their delight and wonder, that he had been doing, with a curious
knowledge, this kind of work for many years. He had anticipated the
results of that movement of the imagination in historical work which did
not exist when he began to write; he had worked that mine, and the
discovery of this made another host of people readers of his poetry.
We need scarcely give examples of this. _Sordello_, in 1840 (long before
the effort of which we speak began), was such a poem--the history of a
specialised soul, with all its scenery and history vividly mediæval.
Think of the _Spanish Cloister_, _The Laboratory_, _A Grammarian's
Funeral_, the _Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church_, poems,
each of which paints an historical period or a vivid piece of its life.
Think of _The Ring and the Book_, with all the world of Rome painted to
the life, and all the soul of the time!
The same kind of work was done for phases and periods of the arts from
Greek times to the Renaissance, I may even say, from the Renaissance to
the present day. _Balaustion's Prologue_ concentrates the passage of
dramatic poetry from Sophocles to Euripides. _Aristophanes' Apology_
realises the wild licence in which art and freedom died in Athens--their
greatness in their ruin--and the passionate sorrow of those who loved
what had been so beautiful. _Cleon_ takes us into a later time when men
had ceased to be original, and life and art had become darkened by the
pain of the soul. We pass on to two different periods of the
Renaissance in _Fra Lippo Lippi_ and in _Andrea del Sarto_, and are
carried further through the centuries of art when we read _Abt Vogler_
and _A Toccata of Galuppi's_. Each of these poems is a concentrated,
accurate piece of art-history, with the addition to it of the human
soul.
Periods and phases of religious history are equally realised. _Caliban
upon Setebos_ begins the record--that philosophic savage who makes his
God out of himself. Then follows study after study, from _A Death in the
Desert_ to _Bishop Blougram's Apology_. Some carry us from early
Christianity through the mediæval faith; others lead us through the
Paganism of the Renaissance and strange shows of Judaism to Browning's
own conception of religion in the present day contrasted with those of
the popular religion in _Christmas-Day and Easter-Day_.
Never, in poetry, was the desire of the historical critic for accuracy
of fact and portraiture, combined with vivid presentation of life, so
fully satisfied. No wonder Browning was not read of old; but it is no
wonder, when the new History was made, when he was once found out, that
he passed from a few to a multitude of readers.
6. Another contrast appears at the very beginning of their career.
Tennyson, in his two earliest books in 1830 and 1833, though clearly
original in some poems, had clinging round his singing robes some of the
rags of the past. He wrote partly in the weak and sentimental strain of
the poets between 1822 and 1832. Browning, on the contrary, sprang at
once into an original poetic life of his own. _Pauline_ was unfinished,
irregular in form, harsh, abrupt, and overloaded, but it was also
entirely fresh and distinct. The influence of Shelley echoes in it, but
much more in admiration than in imitation of him. The matter, the spirit
of the poem were his own, and the verse-movement was his own. Had
Browning been an imitator, the first thing he would have imitated would
have been the sweet and rippling movement of Shelley's melodies. But the
form of his verse, such as it was, arose directly out of his own nature
and was as original as his matter. Tennyson grew into originality,
Browning leaped into it; born, not of other poets, but of his own will.
He begat himself. It had been better for his art, so far as technical
excellence is concerned, had he studied and imitated at first the
previous masters. But he did not; and his dominant individuality, whole
in itself and creating its own powers, separates him at the very
beginning from Tennyson.
7. Tennyson became fully original, but he always admitted, and sometimes
encouraged in himself, a certain vein of conventionality. He kept the
opinions of the past in the matter of caste. He clung to certain
political and social maxims, and could not see beyond them. He sometimes
expressed them as if they were freshly discovered truths or direct
emanations from the Deity of England. He belonged to a certain type of
English society, and he rarely got out of it in his poetry. He inhabited
a certain Park of morals, and he had no sympathy with any self-ethical
life beyond its palings. What had been, what was proper and recognised,
somewhat enslaved in Tennyson that distinctiveness and freedom of
personality which is of so much importance in poetry, and which, had it
had more liberty in Tennyson, would have made him a still greater poet
than he was.
Browning, on the other hand--much more a person in society than
Tennyson, much more a man of the world, and obeying in society its
social conventions more than Tennyson--never allowed this to touch his
poems. As the artist, he was quite free from the opinions, maxims, and
class conventions of the past or the present. His poetry belongs to no
special type of society, to no special nationality, to no separate creed
or church, to no settled standard of social morality. What his own
thought and emotion urged him to say, he said with an absolute
carelessness of what the world would say. And in this freedom he
preceded and prophesied the reaction of the last years of the nineteenth
century against the tyranny of maxims and conventions in society, in
morals, and in religion. That reaction has in many ways been carried
beyond the proper limits of what is just and beautiful. But these
excesses had to be, and the world is beginning to avoid them. What
remains is the blessing of life set free, not altogether from the use of
conventions, but from their tyranny and oppression, and lifted to a
higher level, where the test of what is right and fitting in act, and
just in thought, is not the opinion of society, but that Law of Love
which gives us full liberty to develop our own nature and lead our own
life in the way we think best independent of all conventions, provided
we do not injure the life of others, or violate any of the great moral
and spiritual truths by obedience to which the progress of mankind is
promoted and secured. Into that high and free region of thought and
action Browning brought us long ago. Tennyson did not, save at intervals
when the poet over-rode the man. This differentiates the men. But it
also tells us why Browning was not read fifty years ago, when social
conventions were tyrannous and respectability a despot, and why he has
been read for the last fifteen years and is read now.
8. There is another contrast between these poets. It is quite clear that
Tennyson was a distinctively English poet and a patriotic poet; at times
too much of a patriot to judge tolerantly, or to write fairly, about
other countries. He had, at least, a touch of national contempts, even
of national hatreds. His position towards France was much that of the
British sailor of Nelson's time. His position towards Ireland was that
of the bishop, who has been a schoolmaster, to the naughty curate who
has a will of his own. His position towards Scotland was that of one who
was aware that it had a geographical existence, and that a regiment in
the English army which had a genius for fighting was drawn from its
Highlands. He condescends to write a poem at Edinburgh, but then
Edinburgh was of English origin and name. Even with that help he cannot
be patient of the place. The poem is a recollection of an Italian
journey, and he forgets in memories of the South--though surely
Edinburgh might have awakened some romantic associations--
the clouded Forth,
The gloom which saddens Heaven and Earth,
The bitter East, the misty summer
And gray metropolis of the North.
Edinburgh is English in origin, but Tennyson did not feel England beyond
the Border. There the Celt intruded, and he looked askance upon the
Celt. The Celtic spirit smiled, and took its vengeance on him in its own
way. It imposed on him, as his chief subject, a Celtic tale and a Celtic
hero; and though he did his best to de-celticise the story, the
vengeance lasts, for the more he did this the more he injured his work.
However, being always a noble artist, he made a good fight for his
insularity, and the expression of it harmonised with the pride of
England in herself, alike with that which is just and noble in it, and
with that which is neither the one nor the other.
Then, too, his scenery (with some exceptions, and those invented) was of
his own land, and chiefly of the places where he lived. It was quite
excellent, but it was limited. But, within the limit of England, it was
steeped in the love of England; and so sweet and full is this love, and
so lovely are its results in song, that every Englishman has, for this
reason if for no other, a deep and just affection for Tennyson.
Nevertheless, in that point also his poetry was insular. A fault in the
poet, not in the poetry. Perhaps, from this passionate concentration,
the poetry was all the lovelier.
Again, when Tennyson took a great gest of war as his subject, he took it
exclusively from the history of his own land. No one would know from his
writings that high deeds of sacrifice in battle had been done by other
nations. He knew of them, but he did not care to write about them. Nor
can we trace in his work any care for national struggles or national
life beyond this island--except in a few sonnets and short pieces
concerning Poland and Montenegro--an isolation of interests which cannot
be imputed to any other great poet of the first part of the nineteenth
century, excepting Keats, who had no British or foreign interests. Keats
had no country save the country of Beauty.
At all these points Browning differed from Tennyson. He never displayed
a special patriotism. On the contrary, he is more Italian than English,
and he is more quick to see and sympathise with the national
characteristics of Spain or France or Germany, than he is with those of
England. No insular feeling prevented him from being just to foreigners,
or from having a keen pleasure in writing about them. _Strafford_ is the
only play he wrote on an English subject, and it is rather a study of a
character which might find its place in any aristocracy than of an
English character. Even Pym and Hampden fail to be truly English, and it
would have been difficult for any one but Browning to take their eminent
English elements out of them. _Paracelsus_ and _Sordello_ belong to
Germany and Italy, and there are scarcely three poems in the whole of
the seven numbers of the _Bells and Pomegranates_ which even refer to
England. Italy is there, and chiefly Italy. In _De Gustibus_ he
contrasts himself with his friend who loves England:
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
(If our loves remain)
In an English lane
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.
* * *
What I love best in all the world
Is a castle, precipice-encurled,
In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.
"Look for me, old fellow of mine, if I get out of the grave, in a
seaside house in South Italy," and he describes the place and folk he
loves, and ends:
Open my heart and you will see
Graved inside of it, "Italy."
Such lovers old are I and she:
So it always was, so shall ever be!
It is a poem written out of his very heart.
And then, the scenery? It is not of our country at all. It is of many
lands, but, above all, it is vividly Italian. There is no more minute
and subtly-felt description of the scenery of a piece of village country
between the mountains and the sea, with all its life, than in the poem
called _The Englishman in Italy_. The very title is an outline of
Browning's position in this matter. We find this English poet in France,
in Syria, in Greece, in Spain, but not in England. We find Rome,
Florence, Venice, Mantua, Verona, and forgotten towns among the
Apennines painted with happy love in verse, but not an English town nor
an English village. The flowers, the hills, the ways of the streams, the
talk of the woods, the doings of the sea and the clouds in tempest and
in peace, the aspects of the sky at noon, at sunrise and sunset, are all
foreign, not English. The one little poem which is of English landscape
is written by him in Italy (in a momentary weariness with his daily
adoration), and under a green impulse. Delightful as it is, he would not
have remained faithful to it for a day. Every one knows it, but that we
may realise how quick he was to remember and to touch a corner of early
Spring in England, on a soft and windy day--for all the blossoms are
scattered--I quote it here. It is well to read his sole contribution
(except in _Pauline_ and a few scattered illustrations) to the scenery
of his own country:
Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree hole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England--now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge--
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay, when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower;
--Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
So it runs; but it is only a momentary memory; and he knew, when he had
done it, and to his great comfort, that he was far away from England.
But when Tennyson writes of Italy--as, for instance, in _Mariana in the
South_--how apart he is! How great is his joy when he gets back to
England!
Then, again, when Browning was touched by the impulse to write about a
great deed in war, he does not choose, like Tennyson, English subjects.
The _Cavalier Tunes_ have no importance as patriot songs. They are mere
experiments. The poem, _How They brought the Good News from Ghent to
Aix_, has twice their vigour. His most intense war-incident is taken
from the history of the French wars under Napoleon. The most ringing and
swiftest poem of personal dash and daring--and at sea, as if he was
tired of England's mistress-ship of the waves--a poem one may set side
by side with the fight of _The Revenge_, is _Hervé Riel_. It is a tale
of a Breton sailor saving the French fleet from the English, with the
sailor's mockery of England embedded in it; and Browning sent the
hundred pounds he got for it to the French, after the siege of Paris.
It was not that he did not honour his country, but that, as an artist,
he loved more the foreign lands; and that in his deepest life he
belonged less to England than to the world of man. The great deeds of
England did not prevent him from feeling, with as much keenness as
Tennyson felt those of England, the great deeds of France and Italy.
National self-sacrifice in critical hours, splendid courage in love and
war, belonged, he thought, to all peoples. Perhaps he felt, with
Tennyson's insularity dominating his ears, that it was as well to put
the other side. I think he might have done a little more for England.
There is only one poem, out of all his huge production, which recognises
the great deeds of our Empire in war; and this did not come of a
life-long feeling, such as he had for Italy, but from a sudden impulse
which arose in him, as sailing by, he saw Trafalgar and Gibraltar,
glorified and incarnadined by a battle-sunset:
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray;
"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"--say.
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
It is a little thing, and when it leaves the sunset it is poor. And
there is twice the fervour of its sunset in the description of the
sunrise at Asolo in _Pippa Passes_.
Again, there is scarcely a trace in his work of any vital interest in
the changes of thought and feeling in England during the sixty years of
his life, such as appear everywhere in Tennyson. No one would know from
his poetry (at least until the very end of his life, when he wrote
_Francis Furini_) that the science of life and its origins had been
revolutionised in the midst of his career, or, save in _A Death in the
Desert_, that the whole aspect of theology had been altered, or that the
democratic movement had taken so many new forms. He showed to these
English struggles neither attraction nor repulsion. They scarcely
existed for him--transient elements of the world, merely national, not
universal. Nor did the literature or art of his own country engage him
half so much as the literature and art of Italy. He loved both. Few were
better acquainted with English poetry, or reverenced it more; but he
loved it, not because it was English, but of that world of imagination
which has no special country. He cared also for English art, but he gave
all his personal love to the art of Italy. Nor does he write, as
Tennyson loved to do, of the daily life of the English farmer, squire,
miller and sailor, and of English sweet-hearting, nor of the English
park and brook and village-green and their indwellers, but of the
work-girl at Asolo, and the Spanish monk in his garden, and the Arab
riding through the desert, and of the Duchess and her servant flying
through the mountains of Moldavia, and of the poor painters at Fano and
Florence, and of the threadbare poet at Valladolid, and of the
peasant-girl who fed the Tuscan outlaw, and of the poor grammarian who
died somewhere in Germany (as I think Browning meant it), and of the
Jews at Rome, and of the girl at Pornic with the gold hair and the
peasant's hand, and of a hundred others, none of whom are English. All
his common life, all his love-making, sorrow and joy among the poor, are
outside this country, with perhaps two exceptions; and neither of these
has the English note which sounds so soft and clear in Tennyson. This is
curious enough, and it is probably one of the reasons why English people
for a long time would have so little to do with him. All the same, he
was himself woven of England even more than of Italy. The English
elements in his character and work are more than the Italian. His
intellect was English, and had the English faults as well as the English
excellences. His optimism was English; his steadfast fighting quality,
his unyielding energy, his directness, his desire to get to the root of
things, were English. His religion was the excellent English compromise
or rather balance of dogma, practice and spirituality which laymen make
for their own life. His bold sense of personal freedom was English. His
constancy to his theories, whether of faith or art, was English; his
roughness of form was positively early Teutonic.
Then his wit, his _esprit_,[3] his capacity for induing he skin and the
soul of other persons at remote times of history; his amazing
inventiveness and the ease of it, at which point he beats Tennyson out
of the field; his play, so high fantastical, with his subjects, and the
way in which the pleasure he took in this play overmastered his literary
self-control; his fantastic games with metre and with rhyme, his want of
reverence for the rules of his art; his general lawlessness, belong to
one side, but to one side only, of the Celtic nature. But the ardour
of the man, the pathos of his passion and the passion of his pathos, his
impulse towards the infinite and the constant rush he made into its
indefinite realms; the special set of his imagination towards the
fulfillment of perfection in Love; his vision of Nature as in colour,
rather than in light and shade; his love of beauty and the kind of
beauty that he loved; his extraordinary delight in all kinds of art as
the passionate shaping of part of the unapproachable Beauty--these were
all old Italian.
Then I do not know whether Browning had any Jewish blood in his body by
descent, but he certainly had Jewish elements in his intellect, spirit
and character. His sense of an ever-victorious Righteousness at the
centre of the universe, whom one might always trust and be untroubled,
was Jewish, but he carried it forward with the New Testament and made
the Righteousness identical with absolute Love. Yet, even in this, the
Old Testament elements were more plainly seen than is usual among
Christians. The appearance of Christ as all-conquering love in
_Easter-Day_ and the scenery which surrounds him are such as Ezekiel
might have conceived and written. Then his intellectual subtlety, the
metaphysical minuteness of his arguments, his fondness for parenthesis,
the way in which he pursued the absolute while he loaded it with a host
of relatives, and conceived the universal through a multitude of
particulars, the love he had for remote and unexpected analogies, the
craft with which his intellect persuaded him that he could insert into
his poems thoughts, illustrations, legends, and twisted knots of
reasoning which a fine artistic sense would have omitted, were all as
Jewish as the Talmud. There was also a Jewish quality in his natural
description, in the way he invented diverse phrases to express different
aspects of the same phenomenon, a thing for which the Jews were famous;
and in the way in which he peopled what he described with animal life of
all kinds, another remarkable habit of the Jewish poets. Moreover, his
pleasure in intense colour, in splashes and blots of scarlet and crimson
and deep blue and glowing green; in precious stones for the sake of
their colour--sapphire, ruby, emerald, chrysolite, pearl, onyx,
chalcedony (he does not care for the diamond); in the flame of gold, in
the crimson of blood, is Jewish. So also is his love of music, of music
especially as bringing us nearest to what is ineffable in God, of music
with human aspiration in its heart and sounding in its phrases. It was
this Jewish element in Browning, in all its many forms, which caused him
to feel with and to write so much about the Jews in his poetry. The two
poems in which he most fully enshrines his view of human life, as it may
be in the thought of God and as it ought to be conceived by us, are both
in the mouth of Jews, of _Rabbi Ben Ezra_ and _Jochanan Hakkadosh_. In
_Filippo Baldinucci_ the Jew has the best of the battle; his courtesy,
intelligence and physical power are contrasted with the coarseness,
feeble brains and body of the Christians. In _Holy-Cross Day_, the Jew,
forced to listen to a Christian sermon, begins with coarse and angry
mockery, but passes into solemn thought and dignified phrase. No English
poet, save perhaps Shakespeare, whose exquisite sympathy could not leave
even Shylock unpitied, has spoken of the Jew with compassion, knowledge
and admiration, till Browning wrote of him. The Jew lay deep in
Browning. He was a complex creature; and who would understand or rather
feel him rightly, must be able to feel something of the nature of all
these races in himself. But Tennyson was not complex. He was English and
only English.
But to return from this digression. Browning does not stand alone among
the poets in the apartness from his own land of which I have written.
Byron is partly with him. Where Byron differs from him is, first, in
this--that Byron had no poetic love for any special country as Browning
had for Italy; and, secondly, that his country was, alas, himself, until
at the end, sick of his self-patriotism, he gave himself to Greece.
Keats, on the other hand, had no country except, as I have said, the
country of Loveliness. Wordsworth, Coleridge and Shelley were not
exclusively English. Shelley belonged partly to Italy, but chiefly to
that future of mankind in which separate nationalities and divided
patriotisms are absorbed. Wordsworth and Coleridge, in their early days,
were patriots of humanity; they actually for a time abjured their
country. Even in his later days Wordsworth's sympathies reach far beyond
England. But none of these were so distinctively English as Tennyson,
and none of them were so outside of England as Browning. Interesting as
it is, the _completeness_ of this isolation from England was a
misfortune, not a strength, in his poetry.
There is another thing to say in this connection. The expansion of the
interests of the English poets beyond England was due in Wordsworth,
Coleridge, Shelley, and partly in Byron, to the great tidal-wave of
feeling for man as man, which, rising long before the French Revolution,
was lifted into twice its height and dashed on the shore of the world
with overwhelming volume, by the earthquake in France of 1789. Special
national sentiments were drowned in its waters. Patriotism was the duty
of man, not to any one nation but to the whole of humanity, conceived of
as the only nation.
In 1832 there was little left of that influence in England among the
educated classes, and Tennyson's insular patriotism represented their
feeling for many years, and partly represents it now. But the ideas of
the Revolution were at the same time taking a wiser and more practical
form among the English democracy than they even had at their first
outburst in France, and this emerged, on one side of it, in the idea of
internationalism. It grew among the propertied classes from the greater
facilities of travel, from the wide extension of commercial, and
especially of literary, intercommunication. Literature, even more than
commerce, diminishes the oppositions and increases the amalgamation of
nations. On her lofty plane nations breathe an air in which their
quarrels die. The same idea grew up of itself among the working classes,
not only in England, but in Germany, Italy, France, America. They began,
and have continued, to lose their old belief in distinct and warring
nationalities. To denationalise the nations into one nation only--the
nation of mankind--is too vast an idea to grow quickly, but in all
classes, and perhaps most in the working class, there are an increasing
number of thinking men who say to the varied nations, "We are all one;
our interests, duties, rights, nature and aims are one." And, for my
part, I believe that in the full development of that conception the
progress of mankind is most deeply concerned, and will be best secured.
Now, when all these classes in England, brought to much the same point
by different paths, seek for a poetry which is international rather than
national, and which recognises no special country as its own, they do
not find it in Tennyson, but they do find Browning writing, and quite
naturally, as if he belonged to other peoples as much as to his own,
even more than to his own. And they also find that he had been doing
this for many years before their own international interests had been
awakened. That, then, differentiates him completely from Tennyson, and
is another reason why he was not read in the past but is read in the
present.
9. Again, with regard to politics and social questions, Tennyson made us
know what his general politics were, and he has always pleased or
displeased men by his political position. The British Constitution
appears throughout his work seated like Zeus on Olympus, with all the
world awaiting its nod. Then, also, social problems raise their
storm-awakening heads in his poetry: the Woman's Question; War;
Competition; the State of the Poor; Education; a State without Religion;
the Marriage Question; where Freedom lies; and others. These are brought
by Tennyson, though tentatively, into the palace of poetry and given
rooms in it.
At both these points Browning differed from Tennyson. He was not the
politician, not the sociologist, only the poet. No trace of the British
Constitution is to be found in his poetry; no one could tell from it
that he had any social views or politics at all. Sixty years in close
contact with this country and its movements, and not a line about them!
He records the politics of the place and people of whom or of which he
is for the moment writing, but he takes no side. We know what they
thought at Rome or among the Druses of these matters, but we do not know
what Browning thought. The art-representation, the _Vorstellung_ of the
thing, is all; the personal view of the poet is nothing. It is the same
in social matters. What he says as a poet concerning the ideas which
should rule the temper of the soul and human life in relation to our
fellow men may be applied to our social questions, and usefully; but
Browning is not on that plane. There are no poems directly applied to
them. This means that he kept himself outside the realm of political and
social discussions and in the realm of those high emotions and ideas out
of which imagination in lonely creation draws her work to light. With
steady purpose he refused to make his poetry the servant of the
transient, of the changing elements of the world. He avoided the
contemporary. For this high reserve we and the future of art will owe
him gratitude.
On the contrast between the theology we find in Tennyson and Browning,
and on the contrast between their ethical positions, it will be wiser
not to speak in this introduction. These two contrasts would lead me too
far afield, and they have little or nothing to do with poetry. Moreover,
Browning's theology and ethics, as they are called, have been discussed
at wearying length for the last ten years, and especially by persons who
use his poetry to illustrate from it their own systems of theology,
philosophy and ethics.
10. I will pass, therefore, to another contrast--the contrast between
them as Artists.
A great number of persons who write about the poets think, when they
have said the sort of things I have been saying, that they have said
either enough, or the most important things. The things are, indeed,
useful to say; they enable us to realise the poet and his character, and
the elements of which his poetry is made. They place him in a clear
relation to his time; they distinguish him from other poets, and, taken
all together, they throw light upon his work. But they are not half
enough, nor are they the most important. They leave out the essence of
the whole matter; they leave out the poetry. They illuminate the surface
of his poetry, but they do not penetrate into his interpretation, by
means of his special art, and under the influence of high emotion, of
the beautiful and sublime Matter of thought and feeling which arises out
of Nature and Human Nature, the two great subjects of song; which Matter
the poets represent in a form so noble and so lovely in itself that,
when it is received into a heart prepared
|
ones, could be produced in the
air, by dipping the wire nets described in a solution of soap and water
and quickly drawing them out again. The experiment is not difficult. The
figure is formed of itself. The preceding drawing represents to the eye
the forms obtained with cubical and pyramidal nets. In the cube, thin,
smooth films of soap-suds proceed from the edges to a small, quadratic
film in the centre. In the pyramid, a film proceeds from each edge to
the centre.
These figures are so beautiful that they hardly admit of appropriate
description. Their great regularity and geometrical exactness evokes
surprise from all who see them for the first time. Unfortunately, they
are of only short duration. They burst, on the drying of the solution in
the air, but only after exhibiting to us the most brilliant play of
colors, such as is often seen in soap-bubbles. Partly their beauty of
form and partly our desire to examine them more minutely induces us to
conceive of methods of endowing them with permanent form. This is very
simply done.[2] Instead of dipping the wire nets in solutions of soap,
we dip them in pure melted colophonium (resin). When drawn out the
figure at once forms and solidifies by contact with the air.
It is to be remarked that also solid fluid-figures can be constructed
in the open air, if their weight be light enough, or the wire nets of
very small dimensions. If we make, for example, of very fine wire a
cubical net whose sides measure about one-eighth of an inch in length,
we need simply to dip this net in water to obtain a small solid cube of
water. With a piece of blotting paper the superfluous water may be
easily removed and the sides of the cube made smooth.
Yet another simple method may be devised for observing these figures. A
drop of water on a greased glass plate will not run if it is small
enough, but will be flattened by its weight, which presses it against
its support. The smaller the drop the less the flattening. The smaller
the drop the nearer it approaches the form of a sphere. On the other
hand, a drop suspended from a stick is elongated by its weight. The
undermost parts of a drop of water on a support are pressed against the
support, and the upper parts are pressed against the lower parts because
the latter cannot yield. But when a drop falls freely downward all its
parts move equally fast; no part is impeded by another; no part presses
against another. A freely falling drop, accordingly, is not affected by
its weight; it acts as if it were weightless; it assumes a spherical
form.
A moment's glance at the soap-film figures produced by our various wire
models, reveals to us a great multiplicity of form. But great as this
multiplicity is, the common features of the figures also are easily
discernible.
"All forms of Nature are allied, though none is the same as the other;
Thus, their common chorus points to a hidden law."
This hidden law Plateau discovered. It may be expressed, somewhat
prosily, as follows:
1) If several plane liquid films meet in a figure they are always three
in number, and, taken in pairs, form, each with another, nearly equal
angles.
2) If several liquid edges meet in a figure they are always four in
number, and, taken in pairs, form, each with another, nearly equal
angles.
This is a strange law, and its reason is not evident. But we might apply
this criticism to almost all laws. It is not always that the motives of
a law-maker are discernible in the form of the law he constructs. But
our law admits of analysis into very simple elements or reasons. If we
closely examine the paragraphs which state it, we shall find that their
meaning is simply this, that the surface of the liquid assumes the shape
of smallest area that is possible under the circumstances.
If, therefore, some extraordinarily intelligent tailor, possessing a
knowledge of all the artifices of the higher mathematics, should set
himself the task of so covering the wire frame of a cube with cloth that
every piece of cloth should be connected with the wire and joined with
the remaining cloth, and should seek to accomplish this feat with the
greatest saving of material, he would construct no other figure than
that which is here formed on the wire frame in our solution of soap and
water. Nature acts in the construction of liquid figures on the
principle of a covetous tailor, and gives no thought in her work to the
fashions. But, strange to say, in this work, the most beautiful fashions
are of themselves produced.
The two paragraphs which state our law apply primarily only to soap-film
figures, and are not applicable, of course, to solid oil-figures. But
the principle that the superficial area of the liquid shall be the least
possible under the circumstances, is applicable to all fluid figures. He
who understands not only the letter but also the reason of the law will
not be at a loss when confronted with cases to which the letter does not
accurately apply. And this is the case with the principle of least
superficial area. It is a sure guide for us even in cases in which the
above-stated paragraphs are not applicable.
Our first task will now be, to show by a palpable illustration the mode
of formation of liquid figures by the principle of least superficial
area. The oil on the wire pyramid in our mixture of alcohol and water,
being unable to leave the wire edges, clings to them, and the given mass
of oil strives so to shape itself that its surface shall have the least
possible area. Suppose we attempt to imitate this phenomenon. We take a
wire pyramid, draw over it a stout film of rubber, and in place of the
wire handle insert a small tube leading into the interior of the space
enclosed by the rubber (Fig. 3). Through this tube we can blow in or
suck out air. The quantity of air in the enclosure represents the
quantity of oil. The stretched rubber film, which, clinging to the wire
edges, does its utmost to contract, represents the surface of the oil
endeavoring to decrease its area. By blowing in, and drawing out the
air, now, we actually obtain all the oil pyramidal figures, from those
bulged out to those hollowed in. Finally, when all the air is pumped or
sucked out, the soap-film figure is exhibited. The rubber films strike
together, assume the form of planes, and meet at four sharp edges in the
centre of the pyramid.
[Illustration: Fig. 3.]
[Illustration: Fig. 4.]
The tendency of soap-films to assume smaller forms may be directly
demonstrated by a method of Van der Mensbrugghe. If we dip a square wire
frame to which a handle is attached into a solution of soap and water,
we shall obtain on the frame a beautiful, plane film of soap-suds. (Fig.
4.) On this we lay a thread having its two ends tied together. If, now,
we puncture the part enclosed by the thread, we shall obtain a soap-film
having a circular hole in it, whose circumference is the thread. The
remainder of the film decreasing in area as much as it can, the hole
assumes the largest area that it can. But the figure of largest area,
with a given periphery, is the circle.
[Illustration: Fig. 5.]
Similarly, by the principle of least superficial area, a freely
suspended mass of oil assumes the shape of a sphere. The sphere is the
form of least surface for a given content. This is evident. The more we
put into a travelling-bag, the nearer its shape approaches the spherical
form.
The connexion of the two above-mentioned paragraphs with the principle
of least superficial area may be shown by a yet simpler example. Picture
to yourselves four fixed pulleys, _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, and two movable
rings _f_, _g_ (Fig. 5); about the pulleys and through the rings imagine
a smooth cord passed, fastened at one extremity to a nail _e_, and
loaded at the other with a weight _h_. Now this weight always tends to
sink, or, what is the same thing, always tends to make the portion of
the string _e h_ as long as possible, and consequently the remainder of
the string, wound round the pulleys, as short as possible. The strings
must remain connected with the pulleys, and on account of the rings also
with each other. The conditions of the case, accordingly, are similar to
those of the liquid figures discussed. The result also is a similar one.
When, as in the right hand figure of the cut, four pairs of strings
meet, a different configuration must be established. The consequence of
the endeavor of the string to shorten itself is that the rings separate
from each other, and that now at all points only three pairs of strings
meet, every two at equal angles of one hundred and twenty degrees. As a
fact, by this arrangement the greatest possible shortening of the string
is attained; as can be easily proved by geometry.
This will help us to some extent to understand the creation of beautiful
and complicated figures by the simple tendency of liquids to assume
surfaces of least superficial area. But the question arises, _Why_ do
liquids seek surfaces of least superficial area?
The particles of a liquid cling together. Drops brought into contact
coalesce. We can say, liquid particles attract each other. If so, they
seek to come as close as they can to each other. The particles at the
surface will endeavor to penetrate as far as they can into the interior.
This process will not stop, cannot stop, until the surface has become as
small as under the circumstances it possibly can become, until as few
particles as possible remain at the surface, until as many particles as
possible have penetrated into the interior, until the forces of
attraction have no more work to perform.[3]
The root of the principle of least surface is to be sought, accordingly,
in another and much simpler principle, which may be illustrated by some
such analogy as this. We can _conceive_ of the natural forces of
attraction and repulsion as purposes or intentions of nature. As a
matter of fact, that interior pressure which we feel before an act and
which we call an intention or purpose, is not, in a final analysis, so
essentially different from the pressure of a stone on its support, or
the pressure of a magnet on another, that it is necessarily unallowable
to use for both the same term--at least for well-defined purposes.[4] It
is the purpose of nature, accordingly, to bring the iron nearer the
magnet, the stone nearer the centre of the earth, and so forth. If such
a purpose can be realised, it is carried out. But where she cannot
realise her purposes, nature does nothing. In this respect she acts
exactly as a good man of business does.
It is a constant purpose of nature to bring weights lower. We can raise
a weight by causing another, larger weight to sink; that is, by
satisfying another, more powerful, purpose of nature. If we fancy we are
making nature serve our purposes in this, it will be found, upon closer
examination, that the contrary is true, and that nature has employed us
to attain her purposes.
Equilibrium, rest, exists only, but then always, when nature is brought
to a halt in her purposes, when the forces of nature are as fully
satisfied as, under the circumstances, they can be. Thus, for example,
heavy bodies are in equilibrium, when their so-called centre of gravity
lies as low as it possibly can, or when as much weight as the
circumstances admit of has sunk as low as it can.
The idea forcibly suggests itself that perhaps this principle also holds
good in other realms. Equilibrium exists also in the state when the
purposes of the parties are as fully satisfied as for the time being
they can be, or, as we may say, jestingly, in the language of physics,
when the social potential is a maximum.[5]
You see, our miserly mercantile principle is replete with
consequences.[6] The result of sober research, it has become as fruitful
for physics as the dry questions of Socrates for science generally. If
the principle seems to lack in ideality, the more ideal are the fruits
which it bears.
But why, tell me, should science be ashamed of such a principle? Is
science[7] itself anything more than--a business? Is not its task to
acquire with the least possible work, in the least possible time, with
the least possible thought, the greatest possible part of eternal truth?
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: _Statique expérimentale et théorique des liquids_,
1873. See also _The Science of Mechanics_, p. 384 et seqq., The Open
Court Publishing Co., Chicago, 1893.]
[Footnote 2: Compare Mach, _Ueber die Molecularwirkung der
Flüssigkeiten_, Reports of the Vienna Academy, 1862.]
[Footnote 3: In almost all branches of physics that are well worked
out such maximal and minimal problems play an important part.]
[Footnote 4: Compare Mach, _Vorträge über Psychophysik_, Vienna,
1863, page 41; _Compendium der Physik für Mediciner_, Vienna, 1863,
page 234; and also _The Science of Mechanics_, Chicago, 1893, pp. 84
and 464.]
[Footnote 5: Like reflexions are found in Quételet, _Du système
sociale_.]
[Footnote 6: For the full development of this idea see the essay "On
the Economical Nature of Physical Inquiry," p. 186, and the chapter
on "The Economy of Science," in my _Mechanics_ (Chicago: The Open
Court Publishing Company, 1893), p. 481.]
[Footnote 7: Science may be regarded as a maximum or minimum
problem, exactly as the business of the merchant. In fact, the
intellectual activity of natural inquiry is not so greatly different
from that exercised in ordinary life as is usually supposed.]
THE FIBRES OF CORTI.
Whoever has roamed through a beautiful country knows that the tourist's
delights increase with his progress. How pretty that wooded dell must
look from yonder hill! Whither does that clear brook flow, that hides
itself in yonder sedge? If I only knew how the landscape looked behind
that mountain! Thus even the child thinks in his first rambles. It is
also true of the natural philosopher.
The first questions are forced upon the attention of the inquirer by
practical considerations; the subsequent ones are not. An irresistible
attraction draws him to these; a nobler interest which far transcends
the mere needs of life. Let us look at a special case.
For a long time the structure of the organ of hearing has actively
engaged the attention of anatomists. A considerable number of brilliant
discoveries has been brought to light by their labors, and a splendid
array of facts and truths established. But with these facts a host of
new enigmas has been presented.
Whilst in the theory of the organisation and functions of the eye
comparative clearness has been attained; whilst, hand in hand with this,
ophthalmology has reached a degree of perfection which the preceding
century could hardly have dreamed of, and by the help of the
ophthalmoscope the observing physician penetrates into the profoundest
recesses of the eye, the theory of the ear is still much shrouded in
mysterious darkness, full of attraction for the investigator.
Look at this model of the ear. Even at that familiar part by whose
extent we measure the quantity of people's intelligence, even at the
external ear, the problems begin. You see here a succession of helixes
or spiral windings, at times very pretty, whose significance we cannot
accurately state, yet for which there must certainly be some reason.
[Illustration: Fig. 6.]
The shell or concha of the ear, _a_ in the annexed diagram, conducts the
sound into the curved auditory passage _b_, which is terminated by a
thin membrane, the so-called tympanic membrane, _e_. This membrane is
set in motion by the sound, and in its turn sets in motion a series of
little bones of very peculiar formation, _c_. At the end of all is the
labyrinth _d_. The labyrinth consists of a group of cavities filled with
a liquid, in which the innumerable fibres of the nerve of hearing are
imbedded. By the vibration of the chain of bones _c_, the liquid of the
labyrinth is shaken, and the auditory nerve excited. Here the process of
hearing begins. So much is certain. But the details of the process are
one and all unanswered questions.
To these old puzzles, the Marchese Corti, as late as 1851, added a new
enigma. And, strange to say, it is this last enigma, which, perhaps, has
first received its correct solution. This will be the subject of our
remarks to-day.
Corti found in the cochlea, or snail-shell of the labyrinth, a large
number of microscopic fibres placed side by side in geometrically
graduated order. According to Kölliker their number is three thousand.
They were also the subject of investigation at the hands of Max Schultze
and Deiters.
A description of the details of this organ would only weary you, besides
not rendering the matter much clearer. I prefer, therefore, to state
briefly what in the opinion of prominent investigators like Helmholtz
and Fechner is the peculiar function of Corti's fibres. The cochlea, it
seems, contains a large number of elastic fibres of graduated lengths
(Fig. 7), to which the branches of the auditory nerve are attached.
These fibres, called the fibres, pillars, or rods of Corti, being of
unequal length, must also be of unequal elasticity, and, consequently,
pitched to different notes. The cochlea, therefore, is a species of
pianoforte.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.]
What, now, may be the office of this structure, which is found in no
other organ of sense? May it not be connected with some special
property of the ear? It is quite probable; for the ear possesses a very
similar power. You know that it is possible to follow the individual
voices of a symphony. Indeed, the feat is possible even in a fugue of
Bach, where it is certainly no inconsiderable achievement. The ear can
pick out the single constituent tonal parts, not only of a harmony, but
of the wildest clash of music imaginable. The musical ear analyses every
agglomeration of tones.
The eye does not possess this ability. Who, for example, could tell from
the mere sight of white, without a previous experimental knowledge of
the fact, that white is composed of a mixture of other colors? Could it
be, now, that these two facts, the property of the ear just mentioned,
and the structure discovered by Corti, are really connected? It is very
probable. The enigma is solved if we assume that every note of definite
pitch has its special string in this pianoforte of Corti, and,
therefore, its special branch of the auditory nerve attached to that
string. But before I can make this point perfectly plain to you, I must
ask you to follow me a few steps into the dry domain of physics.
Look at this pendulum. Forced from its position of equilibrium by an
impulse, it begins to swing with a definite time of oscillation,
dependent upon its length. Longer pendulums swing more slowly, shorter
ones more quickly. We will suppose our pendulum to execute one
to-and-fro movement in a second.
This pendulum, now, can be thrown into violent vibration in two ways;
either by a _single_ heavy impulse, or by a _number_ of properly
communicated slight impulses. For example, we impart to the pendulum,
while at rest in its position of equilibrium, a very slight impulse. It
will execute a very small vibration. As it passes a third time its
position of equilibrium, a second having elapsed, we impart to it again
a slight shock, in the same direction with the first. Again after the
lapse of a second, on its fifth passage through the position of
equilibrium, we strike it again in the same manner; and so continue. You
see, by this process the shocks imparted augment continually the motion
of the pendulum. After each slight impulse, the pendulum reaches out a
little further in its swing, and finally acquires a considerable
motion.[8]
But this is not the case under all circumstances. It is possible only
when the impulses imparted synchronise with the swings of the pendulum.
If we should communicate the second impulse at the end of half a second
and in the same direction with the first impulse, its effects would
counteract the motion of the pendulum. It is easily seen that our little
impulses help the motion of the pendulum more and more, according as
their time accords with the time of the pendulum. If we strike the
pendulum in any other time than in that of its vibration, in some
instances, it is true, we shall augment its vibration, but in others
again, we shall obstruct it. Our impulses will be less effective the
more the motion of our own hand departs from the motion of the pendulum.
What is true of the pendulum holds true of every vibrating body. A
tuning-fork when it sounds, also vibrates. It vibrates more rapidly when
its sound is higher; more slowly when it is deeper. The standard _A_ of
our musical scale is produced by about four hundred and fifty vibrations
in a second.
I place by the side of each other on this table two tuning-forks,
exactly alike, resting on resonant cases. I strike the first one a sharp
blow, so that it emits a loud note, and immediately grasp it again with
my hand to quench its note. Nevertheless, you still hear the note
distinctly sounded, and by feeling it you may convince yourselves that
the other fork which was not struck now vibrates.
I now attach a small bit of wax to one of the forks. It is thrown thus
out of tune; its note is made a little deeper. I now repeat the same
experiment with the two forks, now of unequal pitch, by striking one of
them and again grasping it with my hand; but in the present case the
note ceases the very instant I touch the fork.
What has happened here in these two experiments? Simply this. The
vibrating fork imparts to the air and to the table four hundred and
fifty shocks a second, which are carried over to the other fork. If the
other fork is pitched to the same note, that is to say, if it vibrates
when struck in the same time with the first, then the shocks first
emitted, no matter how slight they may be, are sufficient to throw the
second fork into rapid sympathetic vibration. But when the time of
vibration of the two forks is slightly different, this does not take
place. We may strike as many forks as we will, the fork tuned to _A_ is
perfectly indifferent to their notes; is deaf, in fact, to all except
its own; and if you strike three, or four, or five, or any number
whatsoever, of forks all at the same time, so as to make the shocks
which come from them ever so great, the _A_ fork will not join in with
their vibrations unless another fork _A_ is found in the collection
struck. It picks out, in other words, from all the notes sounded, that
which accords with it.
The same is true of all bodies which can yield notes. Tumblers resound
when a piano is played, on the striking of certain notes, and so do
window panes. Nor is the phenomenon without analogy in other provinces.
Take a dog that answers to the name "Nero." He lies under your table.
You speak of Domitian, Vespasian, and Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, you
call upon all the names of the Roman Emperors that occur to you, but the
dog does not stir, although a slight tremor of his ear tells you of a
faint response of his consciousness. But the moment you call "Nero" he
jumps joyfully towards you. The tuning-fork is like your dog. It answers
to the name _A_.
You smile, ladies. You shake your heads. The simile does not catch your
fancy. But I have another, which is very near to you: and for punishment
you shall hear it. You, too, are like tuning-forks. Many are the hearts
that throb with ardor for you, of which you take no notice, but are
cold. Yet what does it profit you! Soon the heart will come that beats
in just the proper rhythm, and then your knell, too, has struck. Then
your heart, too, will beat in unison, whether you will or no.
The law of sympathetic vibration, here propounded for sounding bodies,
suffers some modification for bodies incompetent to yield notes. Bodies
of this kind vibrate to almost every note. A high silk hat, we know,
will not sound; but if you will hold your hat in your hand when
attending your next concert you will not only hear the pieces played,
but also feel them with your fingers. It is exactly so with men. People
who are themselves able to give tone to their surroundings, bother
little about the prattle of others. But the person without character
tarries everywhere: in the temperance hall, and at the bar of the
public-house--everywhere where a committee is formed. The high silk hat
is among bells what the weakling is among men of conviction.
A sonorous body, therefore, always sounds when its special note, either
alone or in company with others, is struck. We may now go a step
further. What will be the behaviour of a group of sonorous bodies which
in the pitch of their notes form a scale? Let us picture to ourselves,
for example (Fig. 8), a series of rods or strings pitched to the notes
_c d e f g_.... On a musical instrument the accord _c e g_ is struck.
Every one of the rods of Fig. 8 will see if its special note is
contained in the accord, and if it finds it, it will respond. The rod
_c_ will give at once the note _c_, the rod _e_ the note _e_, the rod
_g_ the note _g_. All the other rods will remain at rest, will not
sound.
[Illustration: Fig. 8.]
We need not look about us long for such an instrument. Every piano is an
instrument of this kind, with which the experiment mentioned may be
executed with splendid success. Two pianos stand here by the side of
each other, both tuned alike. We will employ the first for exciting the
notes, while we will allow the second to respond; after having first
pressed upon the loud pedal, so as to render all the strings capable of
motion.
Every harmony struck with vigor on the first piano is distinctly
repeated on the second. To prove that it is the same strings that are
sounded in both pianos, we repeat the experiment in a slightly changed
form. We let go the loud pedal of the second piano and pressing on the
keys _c e g_ of that instrument vigorously strike the harmony _c e g_ on
the first piano. The harmony _c e g_ is now also sounded on the second
piano. But if we press only on one key _g_ of one piano, while we strike
_c e g_ on the other, only _g_ will be sounded on the second. It is
thus always the like strings of the two pianos that excite each other.
The piano can reproduce any sound that is composed of its musical notes.
It will reproduce, for example, very distinctly, a vowel sound that is
sung into it. And in truth physics has proved that the vowels may be
regarded as composed of simple musical notes.
You see that by the exciting of definite tones in the air quite definite
motions are set up with mechanical necessity in the piano. The idea
might be made use of for the performance of some pretty pieces of
wizardry. Imagine a box in which is a stretched string of definite
pitch. This is thrown into motion as often as its note is sung or
whistled. Now it would not be a very difficult task for a skilful
mechanic to so construct the box that the vibrating cord would close a
galvanic circuit and open the lock. And it would not be a much more
difficult task to construct a box which would open at the whistling of a
certain melody. Sesame! and the bolts fall. Truly, we should have here a
veritable puzzle-lock. Still another fragment rescued from that old
kingdom of fables, of which our day has realised so much, that world of
fairy-stories to which the latest contributions are Casselli's
telegraph, by which one can write at a distance in one's own hand, and
Prof. Elisha Gray's telautograph. What would the good old Herodotus have
said to these things who even in Egypt shook his head at much that he
saw? [Greek: emoi men ou pista], just as simple-heartedly as then, when
he heard of the circumnavigation of Africa.
A new puzzle-lock! But why invent one? Are not we human beings ourselves
puzzle-locks? Think of the stupendous groups of thoughts, feelings, and
emotions that can be aroused in us by a word! Are there not moments in
all our lives when a mere name drives the blood to our hearts? Who that
has attended a large mass-meeting has not experienced what tremendous
quantities of energy and motion can be evolved by the innocent words,
"Liberty, Equality, Fraternity."
But let us return to the subject proper of our discourse. Let us look
again at our piano, or what will do just as well, at some other
contrivance of the same character. What does this instrument do?
Plainly, it decomposes, it analyses every agglomeration of sounds set up
in the air into its individual component parts, each tone being taken up
by a different string; it performs a real spectral analysis of sound. A
person completely deaf, with the help of a piano, simply by touching the
strings or examining their vibrations with a microscope, might
investigate the sonorous motion of the air, and pick out the separate
tones excited in it.
The ear has the same capacity as this piano. The ear performs for the
mind what the piano performs for a person who is deaf. The mind without
the ear is deaf. But a deaf person, with the piano, does hear after a
fashion, though much less vividly, and more clumsily, than with the
ear. The ear, thus, also decomposes sound into its component tonal
parts. I shall now not be deceived, I think, if I assume that you
already have a presentiment of what the function of Corti's fibres is.
We can make the matter very plain to ourselves. We will use the one
piano for exciting the sounds, and we shall imagine the second one in
the ear of the observer in the place of Corti's fibres, which is a model
of such an instrument. To every string of the piano in the ear we will
suppose a special fibre of the auditory nerve attached, so that this
fibre and this alone, is irritated when the string is thrown into
vibration. If we strike now an accord on the external piano, for every
tone of that accord a definite string of the internal piano will sound
and as many different nervous fibres will be irritated as there are
notes in the accord. The simultaneous sense-impressions due to different
notes can thus be preserved unmingled and be separated by the attention.
It is the same as with the five fingers of the hand. With each finger I
can touch something different. Now the ear has three thousand such
fingers, and each one is designed for the touching of a different
tone.[9] Our ear is a puzzle-lock of the kind mentioned. It opens at the
magic melody of a sound. But it is a stupendously ingenious lock. Not
only one tone, but every tone makes it open; but each one differently.
To each tone it replies with a different sensation.
More than once it has happened in the history of science that a
phenomenon predicted by theory, has not been brought within the range of
actual observation until long afterwards. Leverrier predicted the
existence and the place of the planet Neptune, but it was not until
sometime later that Galle actually found the planet at the predicted
spot. Hamilton unfolded theoretically the phenomenon of the so-called
conical refraction of light, but it was reserved for Lloyd some time
subsequently to observe the fact. The fortunes of Helmholtz's theory of
Corti's fibres have been somewhat similar. This theory, too, received
its substantial confirmation from the subsequent observations of V.
Hensen. On the free surface of the bodies of Crustacea, connected with
the auditory nerves, rows of little hairy filaments of varying lengths
and thicknesses are found, which to some extent are the analogues of
Corti's fibres. Hensen saw these hairs vibrate when sounds were excited,
and when different notes were struck different hairs were set in
vibration.
I have compared the work of the physical inquirer to the journey of the
tourist. When the tourist ascends a new hill he obtains of the whole
district a different view. When the inquirer has found the solution of
one enigma, the solution of a host of others falls into his hands.
Surely you have often felt the strange impression experienced when in
singing through the scale the octave is reached, and nearly the same
sensation is produced as by the fundamental tone. The phenomenon finds
its explanation in the view here laid down of the ear. And not only this
phenomenon but all the laws of the theory of harmony may be grasped and
verified from this point of view with a clearness before undreamt of.
Unfortunately, I must content myself to-day with the simple indication
of these beautiful prospects. Their consideration would lead us too far
aside into the fields of other sciences.
The searcher of nature, too, must restrain himself in his path. He also
is drawn along from one beauty to another as the tourist from dale to
dale, and as circumstances generally draw men from one condition of life
into others. It is not he so much that makes the quests, as that the
quests are made of him. Yet let him profit by his time, and let not his
glance rove aimlessly hither and thither. For soon the evening sun will
shine, and ere he has caught a full glimpse of the wonders close by, a
mighty hand will seize him and lead him away into a different world of
puzzles.
Respected hearers, science once stood in an entirely different relation
to poetry. The old Hindu mathematicians wrote their theorems in verses,
and lotus-flowers, roses, and lilies, beautiful sceneries, lakes, and
mountains figured in their problems.
"Thou goest forth on this lake in a boat. A lily juts forth, one palm
above the water. A breeze bends it downwards, and it vanishes two palms
from its previous spot beneath the surface. Quick, mathematician, tell
me how deep is the lake!"
Thus spoke an ancient Hindu scholar. This poetry, and rightly, has
disappeared from science, but from its dry leaves another poetry is
wafted aloft which cannot be described to him who has never felt it.
Whoever will fully enjoy this poetry must put his hand to the plough,
must himself investigate. Therefore, enough of this! I shall reckon
myself fortunate if you do not repent of this brief excursion into the
flowered dale of physiology, and if you take with yourselves the belief
that we can say of science what we say of poetry,
"Who the song would understand,
Needs must seek the song's own land;
Who the minstrel understand
Needs must seek the minstrel's land."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 8: This experiment, with its associated reflexions, is due
to Galileo.]
[Footnote 9: A development of the theory of musical audition
differing in many points from the theory of Helmholtz here
expounded, will be found in my _Contributions to the Analysis of the
Sensations_ (English translation by C. M. Williams), Chicago, The
Open Court Publishing Company, 1897.]
ON THE CAUSES OF HARMONY.
We are to speak to-day of a theme which is perhaps of somewhat more
general interest--_the causes of the harmony of musical sounds_. The
first
|
."
"How does it come that you know so much more than the rest of us?"
demanded Bristow angrily. "You are not an old soldier."
"I am aware of that fact, but I have been talking to an old soldier, and
that was Haskins. He told me that Major Elliot, one of General Custer's
officers, pursued a party of deserters, and when they resisted he shot
three of them; and Haskins himself was one of the squad that did the
shooting."
"I don't believe a word of it," exclaimed Bristow.
"Neither do I," said another of the recruits. "Of course we expect to be
pursued, but we shall take good care that we are not caught. Any of
these ranchemen who want herdsmen will furnish us with citizens'
clothing, and before our year is out the thing will blow over, and then
we'll go home, and stay there."
"It won't blow over as easily as you think for," said Bob. "It will be
known to your home authorities and to everybody else that you are
deserters, and all the detectives in the United States will be on the
lookout for you. If you want to live in constant fear of arrest, you can
do it, but I won't."
Bob stuck to his resolution, and his discontented companions stuck to
theirs. We shall see in due time which of the four made the wisest
decision.
CHAPTER II.
AN OLD FRIEND TURNS UP.
The long, toilsome journey was completed at last, and late one afternoon
the weary and footsore recruits found themselves drawn up in line on the
parade-ground at Fort Lamoine. After the roll had been called and the
colonel commanding the post had hurriedly inspected them, they were
turned over to a sergeant, who marched them into the barracks. There
they found about two hundred or more soldiers, who, as soon as the order
was given to "break ranks," crowded about them inquiring for late papers
and asking a thousand and one questions in regard to what was going on
in the States.
Learning from the sergeant that no duty would be required of him that
day, Bob spread his blankets in one of the empty bunks, and, stretching
himself upon them, placed his hands under his head and looked about him
with no little curiosity. Presently a young trooper, a boy about his
own age, who looked as though he were just recovering from a long siege
of sickness, approached, and, seating himself on the edge of Bob's bunk,
began a conversation with him. Those of our readers who have met this
boy before in citizen's dress might have seen something familiar about
him, but still it is doubtful if they would have recognized in
him--Well, we will let him reveal his identity. After a few commonplace
remarks Bob inquired, as he nodded his head toward a soldier who was
hobbling about the room with the aid of a crutch,
"What's the matter with that man?"
"Raiders," was the sententious reply.
"Been in a fight?" asked Bob.
The young soldier nodded his head.
"How long since?"
"Last full moon."
"I hope these fights don't occur very often."
"Well, they do--much oftener than I wish they did. I have been in two
pretty hard ones, and that's enough for me. I suppose we shall have more
of them now, for I understand that we have received orders to follow the
raiders across the river and thrash them wherever they can be found."
"Were you wounded in one of those fights?" asked Bob. "Then you must be
sick," he added when the boy shook his head.
"Yes, I am sick," was the reply--"homesick and sick at heart. I have
been in the army nearly two years and a half, and I don't see how I can
live to serve out the rest of my time. I am dying by inches."
"What did you come into the army for, anyhow?"
"Because I was a fool," answered the young soldier bitterly.
"Shake," exclaimed Bob, extending his hand; "I came in for the same
reason."
"Did your parents give their consent?" asked his new acquaintance.
"No, they didn't. They live in Mississippi, and don't know anything
about it."
Bob's long tramp had taken a good deal of spirit out of him, and somehow
he could not muster up energy enough to tell any more falsehoods
concerning himself.
"My parents live in Ohio," said the soldier.
"Then how in the world did you happen to stray down here to Texas?"
asked Bob.
"I ran away from home."
"Shake," said Bob, again extending his hand; "that's just what I did."
The two runaways shook each other's hands in the most cordial manner,
and instantly all reserve between them vanished. They were companions in
misery and united by a bond of sympathy. The young soldier at once
became very communicative. He had closely guarded his secret for more
than two years, because there was not one among the rough men by whom he
was surrounded who could understand or appreciate his feelings. But here
was one who could sympathize with him, and it was a great relief to him
to know that he could speak freely and run no risk of being laughed at
for his weakness.
"My name is Gus Robbins," said he, moving up a little closer to Bob and
speaking in a low, confidential tone. "I had as good a home as any boy
need wish for, but I wasn't contented there; still, I don't believe that
I ever should have left it as I did if circumstances had not smoothed
the way for me. My father is the senior partner in the largest dry-goods
store in Foxboro', and he had in his employ two persons, father and son,
who are in a great measure responsible for all the trouble I have got
into. The buy was a clerk like myself, and his father was our
bookkeeper. They had a very wealthy relative, a rancheman, living here
in Texas, and when that relative died it was found that he had willed
his property to our bookkeeper, to be held in trust for his (the
rancheman's) son. They came to Texas to take charge of the estate, and
after a while I received a letter from Ned (that was the boy's name)
inviting me to pay him a visit. As he sent me money enough to bear the
expenses of the journey, I came; and I am very sorry for it. We got
ourselves into trouble by shooting some cattle that had broken into
Ned's wheat-field, and had to dig out for Brownsville at a gallop. Ned
went squarely back on me, and as I had no money to pay my way home, and
hadn't the cheek to ask my father for it, I did what I thought to be the
next best thing--I enlisted. I am very sorry for that too, for there was
where I made my mistake. I ought to have gone back into the country and
hired out to some stock-raiser. Then I could have gone home as soon as I
had earned and saved money enough to take me there; but now I must stay
my time out; that is, unless--"
Gus paused and looked at Bob. The latter understood him. Here was
another fellow who had made up his mind to desert at the first
opportunity.
"Don't do that," said Bob, earnestly. "You'll only get yourself into
trouble if you attempt it."
"I don't care if I am shot for it. I'll make a break for liberty the
very first good chance I get."
The tone in which these words were uttered satisfied Bob that it would
be of no use whatever to argue the matter. It was plain that Gus had
made up his mind after mature deliberation, and that he was not to be
easily turned from his purpose.
"Where did your friend Ned go after you reached Brownsville?" asked Bob,
who was much interested in the young soldier's story.
"I don't know; I left him at the hotel. He will come to some bad end,
and so will his father, for they are both rascals. The property of which
they have charge, and which brings in a big fortune every year,
rightfully belongs to George Ackerman, Ned's cousin; but Ned and his
father--"
"George Ackerman?" exclaimed Bob, starting up in his bunk.
Gus nodded his head, and looked at the recruit in great surprise.
"Is he a cub pilot?" continued the latter.
"'A cub pilot'?" repeated Gus. "No, he's a herdsman, or I ought rather
to say he _was_ a herdsman. He had stock of his own worth six thousand
dollars. Where he is now I don't know, for on the morning after we left
his ranche, while we were camped in the edge of the timber making up for
the sleep we had lost the night before, we were surprised by a couple of
Greasers, who made a prisoner of George and carried him across the river
into Mexico. I don't know what they did with him, for all George could
induce them to say was that 'Fletcher wanted to see him.'"
"It's the same fellow," exclaimed Bob, rising from his blanket and
seating himself on the edge of the bunk by his companion's side. "He
told me all about it, but his story was so very remarkable that I didn't
know whether to believe it or not. He gave those Greasers the slip,
secured a berth as cub pilot on a Mississippi River steamer, and that
was where I found him."
With this introduction Bob went on to tell how he had saved George from
going to the bottom when Uncle John Ackerman pushed him overboard from
the Sam Kendall; related all the thrilling incidents connected with the
burning of the steamer; described how Uncle John had tried to separate
them in New Orleans; in short, he gave a truthful account of his
intercourse with the cub pilot up to the time he deserted him in
Galveston. Bob was heartily ashamed of that now, and could not bear to
speak of it.
"I became separated from him in some way--it is very easy to lose a
companion in the crowded streets of a city, you know--and that was the
last I saw of him," said Bob in conclusion; and when he told this he
forgot that he had afterward seen George go into a hotel accompanied by
Mr. Gilbert. "Then I didn't know what to do. I had no money; I was
hungry and sleepy, utterly discouraged; and, like you, I sought to end
my troubles by enlisting. I see now that I made a great mistake, but I
am going to serve faithfully during my term of enlistment, if I live. Is
George's ranche far from here?"
"I don't know, for I am not much acquainted with the country east of
here, never having scouted in that direction. It is about one hundred
and fifty miles from Palos, if you know where that is. As you are
George's friend, I am sorry that you enlisted, for I know that you are
going to have a hard time of it; but since you _did_ enlist, I am glad
you were ordered to this post, for misery loves company, you know. Let's
walk out on the parade, where we can talk without danger of being
overheard. Perhaps you would like to take a look at the place which will
always be associated in your mind with the most unhappy days of your
existence."
It was plain that Gus took a very gloomy view of things, and of course
his discouraging remarks made an impression upon Bob, although they did
not take away the interest he felt in his surroundings. Everything was
new to him, and he asked a great many questions as he and Gus walked
slowly around the parade toward the stables.
Fort Lamoine was situated on a high, rocky eminence which overlooked the
surrounding country for half a dozen miles or more in every direction.
The stockade, which enclosed about two acres of ground, was built of
upright logs deeply sunk in the earth. The tops were sawed off level,
and a heavy plate of timber, through which stout wooden pins had been
driven into the end of each log, held them firmly in their place. The
officers' quarters, barracks, store-houses and stables were built in
the same manner. On the outside of the parade were long rows of stately
cottonwood trees, interspersed with shrubs and flowers. In one corner,
on the right-hand side of the principal gate, was the well that supplied
the garrison with water, and in the other was the flagstaff, from which
floated the Stars and Stripes.
"Emblem of liberty!" said Gus with a sneer as he pointed up at the
flag--"emblem of tyranny, rather."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Bob quickly.
"Oh, you will find out before you have been here long," replied Gus,
shaking his head and looking very wise. "A bigger lot of tyrants than
the officers who command us were never crowded into any one post."
"Perhaps you don't do your duty as well as you might?" mildly suggested
Bob.
"I know I don't. I do no more than I am obliged to do, I tell you, and
for the simple reason that I didn't enlist to act as lackey to a lot of
shoulder-straps. I am just as good as they are, but they say I am not.
Why, the last time the paymaster was here his little snipe of a clerk
remarked in my hearing that enlisted men were nothing more than servants
to the officers. What do you think of that?"
Bob did not know what to think of it, so he said nothing in reply. He
simply resolved that he would not pass judgment upon his superiors until
he had had some experience with them himself.
"This is by no means the gloomy place that I expected to find it," said
Bob as he and Gus resumed their walk.
"Oh, the fort itself is good enough," replied Gus; "it's the people who
live in it that I object to. If one could pick his own company, and
could do as he pleased, he might manage to live here for a few years
very comfortably; but we have to associate with some rough characters
there in the barracks, and the officers hold us with our noses close to
the grindstone all the time. They look upon a private as little better
than a dog, and they'll slap him into the guard-house on the slightest
provocation. Now, this is one of the stables; it will accommodate
seventy horses. Those you see in here are blooded animals, and they
belong to the officers. The government horses are always picketed
outside, except when there is danger of a visit from the raiders, and
then they are brought in for safe-keeping. Now, take a good look at the
stable, and then come out and take another look at the stockade. Every
night there are two sentries placed over this stable--one at the front,
and the other at the rear, between the stable and the stockade--and a
guard sleeps inside. Would you believe that, after all these
precautions, it would be possible for anybody to come into the fort and
steal a horse?"
Bob said he would not.
"Well, it was done not more than two weeks ago," continued Gus. "One
stormy night these two logs were removed from the stockade, and four of
the best horses in the stable were run off. It must have taken hours to
do the work, and although the sentries were changed while it was going
on, no one knew that a theft had been committed until the next morning."
"Who did it?" inquired Bob.
"A couple of Comanches, who were surprised and killed by the squad that
was sent in pursuit of them. The Comanches are acknowledged, even by the
Indians themselves, to be the most expert horse-thieves on the Plains.
Why, one night, when a scouting-party to which I was attached were in
camp and fast asleep, a Comanche crept up and stole the lieutenant's
horse; and in order to do it he had to cut the lariat that was tied to
the officer's wrist. He got away with the horse, and never awoke one of
us."
Gus Robbins had accumulated an almost inexhaustible fund of such
anecdotes as these during his two and a half years of army-life, and he
related a good many of them to Bob while they were walking about the
fort examining the different objects of interest. From some of them Bob
gained a faint idea of what might be in store for himself.
The next morning the newly-arrived recruits were formed into an awkward
squad and turned over to the tender mercies of a grizzly old sergeant,
who proved to be anything but an agreeable and patient instructor. He
drilled them for four hours without allowing them a single moment's
rest, abusing them roundly for every mistake they made; and when at last
he marched them to their quarters, it was only that they might eat their
dinner and take half an hour's breathing-spell preparatory to going
through the same course of sprouts again in the afternoon. This routine
was followed day after day until the members of the awkward squad were
declared to be sufficiently drilled to warrant their appearance on
dress-parade. After that they were assigned to the different troops (or
companies) that stood the most in need of men, Bob, to his delight,
finding himself in the same troop to which his new friend, Gus Robbins,
belonged. But even then their troubles did not cease. Instead of
drilling eight hours each day, they drilled six, and were obliged to do
guard-duty besides. Among the three hundred and eighty men who composed
the garrison there were not a few old soldiers who hated this hard work
as cordially as some of the new-comers did, and there was a good deal of
grumbling among them; but Bob Owens never uttered a word of complaint.
Firmly adhering to the resolution he had made when he first enlisted, he
set himself to work to learn just what was required of him, and when he
found out what his duty was, he did it cheerfully and faithfully. He was
always on hand when he was wanted, his equipments were always ready for
inspection, and his horse shone like satin. When his own steed had been
fed and groomed, he turned his attention to the horse belonging to the
lieutenant who commanded the troop to which he belonged, and thereby
aroused the indignation of some of his brother-soldiers.
"What are you doing that for?" demanded Gus Robbins one day as he and
Bristow entered the stable and found Bob busy at work grooming the
lieutenant's horse. "You are in pretty business, I must say!"
"Yes, I rather like it," answered Bob. "I always liked to work about
horses, and I am doing this because I haven't anything else to do just
now."
"Well, I wouldn't do it any more if I were in your place," continued
Gus. "The law expressly prohibits an officer from compelling, or even
hiring, an enlisted man to do his dirty work."
"It does, does it?" exclaimed Bob. "Didn't you tell me when I just came
here that enlisted men were nothing but servants to their officers?"
"I didn't mean that, exactly," stammered Gus. "What I _did_ mean was,
that they don't treat us like human beings. If an officer wants a
servant, he must hire a civilian and pay him out of his own pocket;
that's what the law says."
"I am aware of that fact; but the law doesn't say that I shall not groom
the lieutenant's horse if I choose to do it of my own free will, does
it?"
"Let the toady alone, Robbins," said Bristow angrily. "The troop hasn't
got all the non-coms that it is entitled to, and Owens is working for
chevrons. You know the lieutenant said the other day that there were
four corporals' and two duty sergeants' warrants waiting for those who
were willing to win them; and this is the way Owens is going to work to
get one of them."
Bob straightened up, looked sharply at Bristow for a moment, and then
drew back the brush he held in his hand, as if he had half a mind to
throw it at his head.
"That's what all the boys say, Bob," observed Gus. "If you want to keep
on the right side of the privates, you must not try to curry favor with
the officers."
"If you want a non-com's warrant, why don't you wait until you get a
chance to win it in battle?" added Bristow. "That's what I intend to do,
and I shall think much more of a promotion earned in that way than I
should of one I had gained by cleaning an officer's horse."
"Look here, fellows," said Bob earnestly: "I don't do this work for the
lieutenant because I hope to gain anything by it. I do it simply to pass
away the time, for I can't see any fun in loafing about the quarters
doing nothing. If the boys don't like it, let's see them help
themselves."
"If the lieutenant was a decent man, I wouldn't say a word," answered
Bristow. "But he is so mean that I wouldn't turn my hand over to save
his life."
"Anybody with half an eye could see what is the matter with you,"
retorted Bob. "You have been in the guard-house about half the time
since you have been here, and spent the other half in doing extra duty;
and that's the reason you don't like the lieutenant. If you will wake up
and attend to business, he will treat you well enough."
Bob's prompt and soldier-like way of performing the work that was
required of him very soon attracted the attention of Lieutenant Earle
(that was the name of the officer in command of the troop to which Bob
belonged), and he took his own way to reward him for it. If he was
ordered off on a scout, Bob Owens was always one of the "picked men" who
accompanied him. If he was sent out with a squad during the full of the
moon to watch the ford a few miles below the fort, Bob was one of the
members of that squad. This did not excite the jealousy of the good
soldiers, for they were always glad to have a brave comrade to back them
up in times of danger, no matter whether he was a greenhorn or a
veteran; but the grumblers and the discontented ones, especially those
who belonged to his own troop, had a good deal to say about it, and
declared that the lieutenant took Bob with him on his expeditions to pay
him for grooming his horse. They disliked him cordially, and it was not
long before an incident happened that caused the dislike of at least one
of them to grow into positive hatred.
One pleasant afternoon some of the men received permission to go outside
the gates for a short stroll. They wandered off in squads, some going
one way and some another, and Bristow and two companions--one of whom
was Gus Robbins--bent their steps toward the crumbling remains of an old
adobe outpost which marked the spot where more than one desperate fight
with the Apaches had taken place in the days gone by. There they seated
themselves and entered into conversation, Bristow's first words
indicating that they were about to discuss a subject that had before
occupied their attention.
"I tell you, Robbins," said he, "if you are in earnest in what you say,
now is the time to prove it."
"I certainly am in earnest," answered Gus; "but, to tell you the honest
truth, I am afraid."
"'Afraid'!" repeated Bristow in a tone of contempt. "What in the world
are you afraid of?"
"Of pursuit," replied Gus. "If we resist, we run the risk of being shot;
and if we are captured, we stand an excellent chance of going to
prison."
"Now, Robbins," said Bristow earnestly, "let me once more explain our
arrangements to you, and you will see that we do not risk anything. In
the first place, the horses are left picketed outside the stockade every
night. They are never brought in, as you know, unless there is danger of
a visit from the raiders. Four of the six men who are to act as
horse-guards to-night belong to our party. When the time for action
arrives, these four men will go to work on the other two and try to
induce them to accompany us. If they don't succeed, they'll bind and gag
them, and so put it out of their power to give the alarm. The sentry who
will be on duty between the stable and the stockade is also one of us,
and of course he will raise no objection when we slip out of the
quarters, one by one, and climb the stockade. As fast as we get over we
will select our horses--I've got mine picked out, and I could put my
hand on him in the darkest of nights--and when the last one has made his
escape we'll mount and put off. Of course we hope to escape by running,
but if we can't do that, we shall turn at bay and make a fight of it. We
have all sworn to stand by one another to the last, and thirty
determined, well-armed men can make things lively for a while, I tell
you."
Bristow continued to talk in this strain for half an hour, his companion
now and then putting in a word to assist him; and he talked to such good
purpose that Gus Robbins finally consented to make one of the large
party that was to desert the post that very night. Bristow then gave him
the names of the other members--there were several non-commissioned
officers among them--and after urging him to be very careful of himself,
and to say and do nothing that might arouse the suspicions of
"outsiders," the three got upon their feet and walked toward the fort.
They had scarcely left the ruins when a fatigue-cap arose from behind a
pile of rubbish scarcely a dozen feet from the place where the three
conspirators had been sitting, and a pair of eyes looking out from under
the peak of that cap watched them as they moved away.
CHAPTER III.
BOB'S FIRST COMMAND.
The eyes that were so closely watching the movements of Bristow and his
companions belonged to Bob Owens. The latter had strolled off alone, and
thrown himself behind an angle of the ruined wall to indulge in a few
moments' quiet meditation, and thus unwillingly placed himself in a
position to overhear the details of the plot which we have just
disclosed. If Bristow had not so promptly entered upon the discussion of
the subject of desertion, Bob would have made his presence known to him;
but after he had listened to the first words that fell from his lips he
thought it best to remain quietly in his place of concealment, for he
knew that if he revealed himself, then he would be accused of playing
the part of eavesdropper.
"Now, here's a go!" thought Bob, rising to his feet when he saw Bristow
and his two friends walk through the gate into the fort, "and I wish
somebody would be kind enough to tell me what I ought to do about it.
Shall I stand quietly by and let them go, or shall I tell the officers
what I have heard? If I let them go, they will run the risk of being
gobbled up by that party of Kiowas who are now raiding the country north
of us; and if I tell the colonel, and it should ever be found out on me,
I should lead a hard life in the quarters. I wish I had been somewhere
else when they came here."
Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, Bob left the ruins, and,
walking slowly around the stockade, entered at a gate on the opposite
side. His first care was to hunt up the sergeant-major of his regiment,
whom he found in the quarters. This man had grown gray in the service,
and he was a soldier all over--brave, faithful and untiring in the
performance of his duty. He readily responded to Bob's significant wink,
and followed him out on the parade.
"Sergeant," said Bob as soon as they were beyond earshot of everybody,
"I have accidentally come into the possession of a secret, and I don't
know what to do with it. There are thirty men in the garrison who are
going to desert to-night."
The old fellow took a fresh chew of tobacco, pushed his cap on the back
of his head and looked at Bob, who, after telling him where he had been
and how he happened to overhear the plot, continued:
"It would never do to let them go. You know I was detailed to act as the
colonel's orderly this morning, and I heard that scout who came in just
before noon tell him that there is a large party of hostiles between
here and Fort Tyler. These deserters intend to take their weapons with
them, and think they can make a good fight; but those Kiowas are strong
enough to annihilate them."
"Small loss that would be to us!" growled the veteran. "We are going to
have some hot work to do before long, and such men are no good in a
fight."
"It would never do to let them go," repeated Bob, "but there is only one
way to prevent it that I can see; and that is by telling the colonel all
about it. If I do that, and they should find it out, they would go back
on me, sure."
"Of course they would," said the sergeant.
"Well, what would you do if you were in my place?" asked Bob.
"What would I do? I would go straight to the officer of the day and tell
him the whole thing. The good-will of such men don't amount to anything,
any way, and what do you care if they do go back on you? There's only
thirty of them, and that leaves three hundred and fifty good fellows who
will always be ready to befriend you. Do you know who these deserters
are? I'll report the matter if you are afraid, and then let's see one of
them open his head to me."
Bob repeated the names of the would-be deserters which Bristow had given
as nearly as he could recall them, and the sergeant hurried off to hunt
up the officer of the day, while Bob went back into the quarters. He had
been there but a few minutes when the orderly appeared at the door and
sung out,
"Owens, the colonel wants to see you."
"Aha!" exclaimed Bristow, "our good little boy has been doing something
bad at last.--There are no bunks in the guard-house, Owens."
Bob made no reply. He followed the orderly across the parade and into
the colonel's head-quarters, where he found the officer of the day, the
sergeant-major and all the ranking officers of the garrison. The
colonel questioned him closely in regard to the plot he had discovered,
and finally dismissed him and the sergeant without making any comments.
Half an hour later the entire cavalry force of the garrison was drawn up
in line, the names of forty men who were ordered to the front and centre
were read off, and the rest of the troopers were sent back to their
quarters. Then the bugle sounded "Boots and saddles!" and in a few
minutes more these forty men--one of whom was Bob Owens--rode out of the
gate, led by the scout who had brought the information concerning that
war-party of Kiowas. The squad was commanded by Lieutenant Earle.
"That's all right," whispered Bristow to one of his fellow-conspirators
as they stood in front of their quarters and saw their comrades ride
away. "There will be just so many men less to follow us to-morrow
morning. But I wish we knew which way they are going," he added in a
tone of anxiety; "and we must find out if we can. We don't want to run
into them if we can possibly avoid them, for there are some of the best
men in the garrison in that party."
"I suppose we are off after the hostiles," said the soldier who rode by
Bob's side. "The scout told the colonel that there were three hundred
braves in that party, didn't he?"
Bob answered that that was what he understood him to say.
"Then I wish we had a hundred men instead of forty," continued the
trooper. "Our squad is too large to conceal itself, and too small to
make a successful fight against such overwhelming odds. Well, if worst
comes to worst--"
The speaker thrust his hand into his boot-leg and drew out a loaded
Derringer. He intended to send its contents through his own head rather
than fall alive into the hands of the hostiles. Probably nine out of ten
men in that squad were provided with weapons just like it, and which
they intended to use in the same way should circumstances require it.
Veteran Indian-fighters never fail to give this advice to a recruit:
"When it comes to a fight, save the last shot for yourself."
But, as it happened, Bob and his companions were not out after hostiles
on this particular afternoon, for that raiding-party of Kiowas was
already beyond the reach of any force that the commander of Fort
Lamoine could have sent in pursuit of it. They found out in due time
that their mission was of an entirely different character. They rode at
a sharp trot until it was nearly dark, and then they went into camp in a
belt of post-oaks and cooked and ate their supper. After an hour's rest
they mounted and rode back toward the fort again. Arriving within a mile
of the stockade, a halt was ordered, the men were dismounted, and, every
fourth trooper being left to hold the horses, the others marched off
through the darkness, armed only with their revolvers. Then Bob began to
understand the matter. The object of the expedition was to capture the
deserters. It had been led away from the fort simply as a "blind," and
in order to lull the malcontents into a feeling of security no change
whatever had been made in the guards who were to do duty that night.
After the lieutenant had marched about half a mile another halt was
ordered, and sixteen men, divided into squads of four men each, were
told off to begin the work. The officer approached each squad in turn,
and after designating some one to take charge of it, gave him his
instructions in a whisper. When he walked up to Bob he asked,
"Do you know where post No. 4 is? and can you go straight to it without
making any mistake?"
"Yes, sir, to both your questions," was the prompt reply.
"Very well. Take command of this squad and go and arrest Dodd, whom you
will find on guard there. Then put Carey in his place, and come back and
report to me at post No. 1, and I will tell you what else to do. The
countersign," added the lieutenant, coming a step nearer to Bob and
speaking in a tone so low that no one else could catch his words, "is
'Custer.' Be quick and still. Forward, march!"
As Bob moved away with his squad he told himself that fidelity is
sometimes appreciated. This was his first command, and he knew that much
depended upon the way in which he executed the orders that had been
given him. If they were faithfully and skilfully carried out, he might
hope to be entrusted with other commands in future, and so be given
opportunities to distinguish himself and win promotion; for Bob, like
every ambitious boy, was anxious to get ahead as rapidly as possible.
"What's the matter, Owens?" asked all the members of his squad in
concert as soon as they were out of the lieutenant's hearing. They were
all in the dark, and so was every man belonging to the expedition with
the exception of the lieutenant, the sergeant-major and Bob Owens. The
latter explained the state of affairs in as few words as he could, and
the general verdict was that it would have been no loss to the garrison,
or to the service either, if Bristow and his companions had been
permitted to depart in peace.
In a few minutes Bob and his men arrived within sight of the place where
the horses were staked out, and a hoarse voice broke the stillness.
"Halt! Who comes there?" was the challenge.
"Friends, with the countersign," answered Bob after bringing his squad
to a halt.
"Advance, one friend, and give the countersign," was the next command.
"Now, boys," said Bob in a low whisper, "you stay here, and when I call
out 'Advance, squad,' come up briskly and surround Dodd, so as to be
ready to overpower him if he shows the least disposition to resist or
cry out."
So saying, Bob moved off in the direction from which the hail sounded,
and presently discovered the sentry, who stood at "arms port."
"Halt!" commanded the guard when Bob had
|
and came back.
"'Got your gun on you, Draper? Kill me now; kill me, and have it over
with. I'm down and done for. There's nothing more for me.'
"I refused; and yet I know that with regard to that man's mental agony
for the next few days, culminating in the first physical symptoms of
unrest, fever, and thirst, I should have obeyed his request. He was
doomed, and knew it. And he was a madman from mental causes before the
physical had produced effects, even though the disease ran its course
quickly in him. On the third day he was raving of a black-eyed woman
who kept a candy store in Boston, and who had promised to marry him
when he obtained command.
"I got out a bottle of bromide from the medicine chest and induced
Barnes to take a good dose of it. He drank about half a teacup of it,
and in an hour was asleep. Then, clad in boots and mittens, with a
sailor's clothes-bag over my head, I went aloft and lashed myself in
the mizzentopmast crosstrees, where I obtained about six hours' sleep,
which I needed badly. Barnes was worse when I came down; three more
rats had bitten him, he declared, and he begged me to shoot him. It
never occurred to him to do the job himself, and I couldn't suggest it
to him.
"'Well, Draper,' he said at last, 'I'm going, and I know it. Now, if
you escape, sometime you'll be in Boston. Will you take the street-car
out the Boston Road, and at Number 24 Middlesex Place drop in and say a
few words to that woman? Call her Kate, and say we were shipmates, and
I told you to. Tell her about this, and that I thought of her, and
didn't want to die because of her. Tell her, will you, Draper?'
"'Barnes, I promise,' I said. 'I will hunt up or write to that woman if
I get ashore. I'll tell her all about it. Now, go and lie down.'
"But he couldn't lie down; and when the time came that I had to sleep
in the crosstrees again, I found, on waking, that Barnes had followed
me, and in some way had got my gun out of my pocket. I knew he had it
by the insane way he laughed as I came down from my perch. I hunted
through the cabin for pistols or rifles, but he had been ahead of me;
and as I came up and he stood near the wheel--the wheel, like
everything else, was neglected now--there was a crazy look in his eyes
that meant bad luck for me.
"'Going to kill me, weren't you?' he chuckled. 'Well, you won't. Nor
will you get that woman out the Boston Road. I'm dead on to you, you
dog. And you'll get no credit for the advice you gave--that I put down
in the log. Not much you won't.'
"He darted into the cabin and returned with the ship's log, which he
had charge of, and the official log of the skipper. I do not know what
was entered in them, but he tossed them overboard.
"'There goes your record of efficiency,' he said.
"He came toward me on the run, his eyes blazing, but I did not budge.
He made no gun-play, but put up his fists, and I met him; I was used to
this form of fighting. However, I went down before his plunges and
punches, and realized that I was up against a bigger, heavier, stronger
man than myself, and could not hope to win. I'm no small boy, as you
see, but Barnes was a giant, and a skilled fighter.
"I got away from him and kept away. I wanted to hoist an ensign, union
down, but the lunatic prevented me; his intelligence had left him. He
watched me as a cat watches a mouse, or I might have brought a
handspike down on his head and ended his troubles and some of my own.
And it would have been no foul play to have done so; but I could not.
He followed me everywhere, ready to pounce upon me at the first move I
made.
"I spent that night walking away from him as he nosed me around the
deck, and brushing off the crazy rats that climbed my legs. I did not
dare make for the rigging, for without my bag I would have been worse
off than on deck, and at such a move he would have jumped on me. But in
the morning he had his first convulsion, and it left him a wreck. While
he lay gasping and choking on the deck, with equally afflicted rats
crawling over him and nipping where they felt flesh, I managed to get a
bite from the steward's storeroom, and it roused me up and strengthened
me. I came out, resolved to bind him down, but I was too late. He was
on his feet, the paroxysm gone, crazy as ever, and, though weak, still
able to master me.
"The ship was rolling heavily in the trough of a Biscay sea, which, no
matter how the wind, is a violent, troublesome heave of cross-forces.
The upper canvas was carried away, or hanging in the buntlines. Some of
the braces were adrift and the yards swinging. We had the courses
clewed up when the men were alive, and the lower yards were fairly
square; so the ship, with the aid of the head-sails, kept the canvas
full, and she sailed along, manned by a crew of rabid rats, a crazy
first mate, and a half-crazy second mate. I knew I was half-crazy, for
I had a fixed, insistent thought that would not go--that of a little
school-ma'am who had whipped me in childhood. I deserved the whipping,
but--Lord, how I hated her now!
"I feared the mate. He was again nosing me around the deck, glaring
murder at me and talking to himself. I feared him more than I feared
the rats, for I could brush them off. I could not get out of his sight;
but I did venture on grabbing a circular life-buoy from the
quarter-rail as I passed it, and slipping it over my head, and he did
not seem to notice the maneuver. I was resolved, as a last resort, to
jump into the sea with this scant protection against death by drowning,
hunger, or thirst, rather than risk another assault by this lunatic or
a bite from a rat. These were numbered now by the thousands. The deck
was black with them in places, and here and there a rope was as big
around as a stove-pipe.
"All was quiet this last day aboard. The mate busied himself in
following me around, talking to the rats and to himself, even as they
bit him, and I busied myself in quietly keeping out of his way and
brushing off rats that climbed my legs. I was dead tired, being on my
feet so long, and in sheer desperation and love of life I hoped for
another convulsion that would give me relief from the strain. But
before it came to him I was out of his way, and, I strongly suspect, he
was out of the way of the convulsion.
"He caught me on the forecastle deck and made for me, half mad from the
disease, but wholly mad from his mental state. There was no escape
except out the head-gear, and I went that way, with him after me. Out
the bowsprit, on to the jib foot-ropes, and out toward the end I went,
hoping to reach the martingale-stay and slip down it to the back-ropes.
I did so, but he scrambled down, tumbling and clutching, and gripped me
just abaft the dolphin-striker. His face was twisted in frenzy, and he
growled and barked like a dog, occasionally breaking into a horrible,
rat-like squeal. But he didn't bite me; he simply squeezed me in both
arms, and in that effort lost his hold on the back-rope and fell,
taking me with him. We struck the water together, and his grip
loosened, for he was now up against something too strong for him--the
sound and sight and feeling of cold water. When we came up, the
cutwater was between us, and I didn't see him again, though I heard his
convulsive gurgling and screaming from the other side of the ship. Then
the sounds stopped, and I think he must have gone under; but I was too
busy with myself to speculate much. I was trying to get a finger-nail
grip on that smooth, black side slipping by me, but could not. There
was nothing to get hold of, and no ropes were hanging over. Then I
thought of the rudder and the iron bumpkin on it that the rudder-chains
fastened to, and swam with all my strength under the quarter as it came
along. But it was no good. The life-buoy hampered me in swimming, and I
missed the rudder by an inch.
"The ship went on and left me alone on the sea. I remember very little
of it. I think my mind must have slowly gone out of me, leaving me
another person. I remember a few sensations--and it only seems like a
week ago to me--one, of being alone on the surface of the sea at night,
supported by the life-buoy; and then, I seemed to be back among the
rats, but that was just as I wakened on your floor here. The next
sensation was the sight of you, and the sound of your voice, speaking
to me, and then the knowledge that I was really alive and ashore."
"And the woman out the Boston Road?" I inquired at length.
"I will write to her as I promised. But I will not go there. Boston is
too close to the sea."
FROM THE DARKNESS AND THE DEPTHS
I had known him for a painter of renown--a master of his art, whose
pictures, which sold for high prices, adorned museums, the parlors of
the rich, and, when on exhibition, were hung low and conspicuous. Also,
I knew him for an expert photographer--an "art photographer," as they
say, one who dealt with this branch of industry as a fad, an amusement,
and who produced pictures that in composition, lights, and shades
rivaled his productions with the brush.
His cameras were the best that the market could supply, yet he was
able, from his knowledge of optics and chemistry, to improve them for
his own uses far beyond the ability of the makers. His studio was
filled with examples of his work, and his mind was stocked with
information and opinions on all subjects ranging from international
policies to the servant-girl problem.
He was a man of the world, gentlemanly and successful, about sixty
years old, kindly and gracious of manner, and out of this kindliness
and graciousness had granted me the compliment of his friendship, and
access to his studio whenever I felt like calling upon him.
Yet it never occurred to me that the wonderful and technically correct
marines hanging on his walls were due to anything but the artist's
conscientious study of his subject, and only his casual
mispronounciation of the word "leeward," which landsmen pronounce as
spelled, but which rolls off the tongue of a sailor, be he former dock
rat or naval officer, as "looward," and his giving the long sounds to
the vowels of the words "patent" and "tackle," that induced me to ask
if he had ever been to sea.
"Why, yes," he answered. "Until I was thirty I had no higher ambition
than to become a skipper of some craft; but I never achieved it. The
best I did was to sign first mate for one voyage--and that one was my
last. It was on that voyage that I learned something of the mysterious
properties of light, and it made me a photographer, then an artist. You
are wrong when you say that a searchlight cannot penetrate fog."
"But it has been tried," I remonstrated.
"With ordinary light. Yes, of course, subject to refraction, reflection,
and absorption by the millions of minute globules of water it encounters."
We had been discussing the wreck of the _Titanic_, the most terrible
marine disaster of history, the blunders of construction and
management, and the later proposed improvements as to the lowering of
boats and the location of ice in a fog.
Among these considerations was also the plan of carrying a powerful
searchlight whose beam would illumine the path of a twenty-knot liner
and render objects visible in time to avoid them. In regard to this I
had contended that a searchlight could not penetrate fog, and if it
could, would do as much harm as good by blinding and confusing the
watch officers and lookouts on other craft.
"But what other kind of light can be used?" I asked, in answer to his
mention of ordinary light.
"Invisible light," he answered. "I do not mean the Röntgen ray, nor the
emanation from radium, both of which are invisible, but neither of
which is light, in that neither can be reflected nor refracted. Both
will penetrate many different kinds of matter, but it needs reflection
or refraction to make visible an object on which it impinges.
Understand?"
"Hardly," I answered dubiously. "What kind of visible light is there,
if not radium or the Röntgen ray? You can photograph with either, can't
you?"
"Yes, but to see what you have photographed you must develop the film.
And there is no time for that aboard a fast steamer running through the
ice and the fog. No, it is mere theory, but I have an idea that the
ultraviolet light--the actinic rays beyond the violet end of the
spectrum, you know--will penetrate fog to a great distance, and in
spite of its higher refractive power, which would distort and magnify
an object, it is better than nothing."
"But what makes you think that it will penetrate fog?" I queried. "And
if it is invisible itself, how will it illumine an object?"
"As to your first question," he answered, with a smile, "it is well
known to surgeons that ultraviolet light will penetrate the human body
to the depth of an inch, while the visible rays are reflected at the
surface. And it has been known to photographers for fifty years that
this light--easily isolated by dispersion through prisms--will act on a
sensitized plate in an utterly dark room."
"Granted," I said. "But how about the second question? How can you see
by this light?"
"There you have me," he answered. "It will need a quicker development
than any now known to photography--a traveling film, for instance, that
will show the picture of an iceberg or a ship before it is too late to
avoid it--a traveling film sensitized by a quicker acting chemical than
any now used."
"Why not puzzle it out?" I asked. "It would be a wonderful invention."
"I am too old," he answered dreamily. "My life work is about done. But
other and younger men will take it up. We have made great strides in
optics. The moving picture is a fact. Colored photographs are possible.
The ultraviolet microscope shows us objects hitherto invisible because
smaller than the wave length of visible light. We shall ultimately use
this light to see through opaque objects. We shall see colors never
imagined by the human mind, but which have existed since the beginning
of light.
"We shall see new hues in the sunset, in the rainbow, in the flowers
and foliage of forest and field. We may possibly see creatures in the
air above never seen before.
"We shall certainly see creatures from the depths of the sea, where
visible light cannot reach--creatures whose substance is of such a
nature that it will not respond to the light it has never been exposed
to--a substance which is absolutely transparent because it will not
absorb, and appear black; will not reflect, and show a color of some
kind; and will not refract, and distort objects seen through it."
"What!" I exclaimed. "Do you think there are invisible creatures?"
He looked gravely at me for a moment, then said: "You know that there
are sounds that are inaudible to the human ear because of their too
rapid vibration, others that are audible to some, but not to all. There
are men who cannot hear the chirp of a cricket, the tweet of a bird, or
the creaking of a wagon wheel.
"You know that there are electric currents much stronger in voltage
than is necessary to kill us, but of wave frequency so rapid that the
human tissue will not respond, and we can receive such currents without
a shock. And _I know_"--he spoke with vehemence--"that there are
creatures in the deep sea of color invisible to the human eye, for I
have not only felt such a creature, but seen its photograph taken by
the ultraviolet light."
"Tell me," I asked breathlessly. "Creatures solid, but invisible?"
"Creatures solid, and invisible because absolutely transparent. It is
long since I have told the yarn. People would not believe me, and it
was so horrible an experience that I have tried to forget it. However,
if you care for it, and are willing to lose your sleep to-night, I'll
give it to you."
He reached for a pipe, filled it, and began to smoke; and as he smoked
and talked, some of the glamor and polish of the successful artist and
clubman left him. He was an old sailor, spinning a yarn.
"It was about thirty years ago," he began, "or, to be explicit,
twenty-nine years this coming August, at the time of the great Java
earthquake. You've heard of it--how it killed seventy thousand people,
thirty thousand of whom were drowned by the tidal wave.
"It was a curious phenomenon; Krakatoa Island, a huge conical mountain
rising from the bottom of Sunda Strait, went out of existence, while in
Java a mountain chain was leveled, and up from the bowels of the earth
came an iceberg--as you might call it--that floated a hundred miles on
a stream of molten lava before melting.
"I was not there; I was two hundred miles to the sou'west, first mate
of one of those old-fashioned, soft-pine, centerboard barkentines--three
sticks the same length, you know--with the mainmast stepped on the port
side of the keel to make room for the centerboard--a craft that would
neither stay, nor wear, nor scud, nor heave to, like a decent vessel.
"But she had several advantages; she was new, and well painted, deck,
top-sides, and bottom. Hence her light timbers and planking were not
water-soaked. She was fastened with 'trunnels,' not spikes and bolts,
and hemp rigged.
"Perhaps there was not a hundredweight of iron aboard of her, while her
hemp rigging, though heavier than water, was lighter than wire rope,
and so, when we were hit by the back wash of that tidal wave, we did
not sink, even though butts were started from one end to the other of
the flimsy hull, and all hatches were ripped off.
"I have called it the back wash, yet we may have had a tidal wave of
our own; for, though we had no knowledge of the frightful catastrophe
at Java, still there had been for days several submarine earthquakes
all about us, sending fountains of water, steam bubbles, and mud from
the sea bed into the air.
"As the soundings were over two thousand fathoms in that neighborhood,
you can imagine the seismic forces at work beneath us. There had been
no wind for days, and no sea, except the agitation caused by the
upheavals. The sky was a dull mud color, and the sun looked like
nothing but a dark, red ball, rising day by day in the east, to move
overhead and set in the west. The air was hot, sultry, and stifling,
and I had difficulty in keeping the men--a big crew--at work.
"The conditions would try anybody's temper, and I had my own troubles.
There was a passenger on board, a big, fat, highly educated German--a
scientist and explorer--whom we had taken aboard at some little town on
the West Australian coast, and who was to leave us at Batavia, where he
could catch a steamer for Germany.
"He had a whole laboratory with him, with scientific instruments that I
didn't know the names of, with maps he had made, stuffed beasts and
birds he had killed, and a few live ones which he kept in cages and
attended to himself in the empty hold; for we were flying light, you
know, without even ballast aboard, and bound to Batavia for a cargo.
"It was after a few eruptions from the bottom of the sea that he got to
be a nuisance; he was keenly interested in the strange dead fish and
nondescript creatures that had been thrown up. He declared them new,
unknown to science, and wore out my patience with entreaties to haul
them aboard for examination and classification.
"I obliged him for a time, until the decks stank with dead fish, and
the men got mutinous. Then I refused to advance the interests of
science any farther, and, in spite of his excitement and pleadings,
refused to litter the decks any more. But he got all he wanted of the
unclassified and unknown before long.
"Tidal wave, you know, is a name we give to any big wave, and it has no
necessary connection with the tides. It may be the big third wave of a
series--just a little bigger than usual; it may be the ninth, tenth,
and eleventh waves merged into one huge comber by uneven wind pressure;
it may be the back wash from an earthquake that depresses the nearest
coast, and it may be--as I think it was in our case--a wave sent out by
an upheaval from the sea bed. At any rate, we got it, and we got it
just after a tremendous spouting of water and mud, and a thick cloud of
steam on the northern horizon.
"We saw a seeming rise to the horizon, as though caused by refraction,
but which soon eliminated refraction as a cause by its becoming visible
in its details--its streaks of water and mud, its irregular upper edge,
the occasional combers that appeared on this edge, and the terrific
speed of its approach. It was a wave, nothing else, and coming at forty
knots at least.
"There was little that we could do; there was no wind, and we headed
about west, showing our broadside; yet I got the men at the downhauls,
clewlines, and stripping lines of the lighter kites; but before a man
could leave the deck to furl, that moving mountain hit us, and buried
us on our beam ends just as I had time to sing out: 'Lash yourselves,
every man.'
"Then I needed to think of my own safety and passed a turn of the
mizzen gaff-topsail downhaul about me, belaying to a pin as the
cataclysm hit us. For the next two minutes--although it seemed an hour,
I did not speak, nor breathe, nor think, unless my instinctive grip on
the turns of the downhaul on the pin may have been an index of thought.
I was under water; there was roaring in my ears, pain in my lungs, and
terror in my heart.
"Then there came a lessening of the turmoil, a momentary quiet, and I
roused up, to find the craft floating on her side, about a third out of
water, but apt to turn bottom up at any moment from the weight of the
water-soaked gear and canvas, which will sink, you know, when wet.
"I was hanging in my bight of rope from a belaying pin, my feet clear
of the perpendicular deck, and my ears tortured by the sound of men
overboard crying for help--men who had not lashed themselves. Among
them I knew was the skipper, a mild-mannered little fellow, and the
second mate, an incompetent tough from Portsmouth, who had caused me
lots of trouble by his abuse of the men and his depending upon me to
stand by him.
"Nothing could be done for them; they were adrift on the back wall of a
moving mountain that towered thirty degrees above the horizon to port;
and another moving mountain, as big as the first, was coming on from
starboard--caused by the tumble into the sea of the uplifted water.
"Did you ever fall overboard in a full suit of clothes? If you did, you
know the mighty exercise of strength required to climb out. I was a
strong, healthy man at the time, but never in my life was I so tested.
I finally got a grip on the belaying pin and rested; then, with an
effort that caused me physical pain, I got my right foot up to the
pinrail and rested again; then, perhaps more by mental strength than
physical--for I loved life and wanted to live--I hooked my right foot
over the rail, reached higher on the rope, rested again, and finally
hove myself up to the mizzen rigging, where I sat for a few moments to
get my breath, and think, and look around.
"Forward, I saw men who had lashed themselves to the starboard rail,
and they were struggling, as I had struggled, to get up to the
horizontal side of the vessel. They succeeded, but at the time I had no
use for them. Sailors will obey orders, if they understand the orders,
but this was an exigency outside the realm of mere seamanship.
"Men were drowning off to port; men, like myself, were climbing up to
temporary safety afforded by the topsides of a craft on her beam ends;
and aft, in the alleyway, was the German professor, unlashed, but safe
and secure in his narrow confines, one leg through a cabin window, and
both hands gripping the rail, while he bellowed like a bull, not for
himself, however--but for his menagerie in the empty hold.
"There was small chance for the brutes--smaller than for ourselves,
left on the upper rail of an over-turned craft, and still smaller than
the chance of the poor devils off to port, some of whom had gripped the
half-submerged top-hamper, and were calling for help.
"We could not help them; she was a Yankee craft, and there was not a
life buoy or belt on board; and who, with another big wave coming,
would swim down to looward with a line?
"Landsmen, especially women and boys, have often asked me why a wooden
ship, filled with water, sinks, even though not weighted with cargo.
Some sailors have pondered over it, too, knowing that a small boat,
built of wood, and fastened with nails, will float if water-logged.
"But the answer is simple. Most big craft are built of oak or hard
pine, and fastened together with iron spikes and bolts--sixty tons at
least to a three-hundred-ton schooner. After a year or two this hard,
heavy wood becomes water-soaked, and, with the iron bolts and spikes,
is heavier than water, and will sink when the hold is flooded.
"This craft of ours was like a small boat--built of soft light wood,
with trunnels instead of bolts, and no iron on board except the anchors
and one capstan. As a result, though ripped, twisted, broken, and
disintegrated, she still floated even on her beam ends.
"But the soaked hemp rigging and canvas might be enough to drag the
craft down, and with this fear in my mind I acted quickly. Singing out
to the men to hang on, I made my way aft to where we had an ax, lodged
in its beckets on the after house. With this I attacked the mizzen
lanyards, cutting everything clear, then climbed forward to the main.
"Hard as I worked I had barely cut the last lanyard when that second
wave loomed up and crashed down on us. I just had time to slip into the
bight of a rope, and save myself; but I had to give up the ax; it
slipped from my hands and slid down to the port scuppers.
"That second wave, in its effect, was about the same as the first,
except that it righted the craft. We were buried, choked, and half
drowned; but when the wave had passed on, the main and mizzenmasts,
unsupported by the rigging that I had cut away, snapped cleanly about
three feet above the deck, and the broad, flat-bottomed craft
straightened up, lifting the weight of the foremast and its gear, and
lay on an even keel, with foresail, staysail, and jib set, the fore
gaff-topsail, flying jib, and jib-topsail clewed down and the wreck of
the masts bumping against the port side.
"We floated, but with the hold full of water, and four feet of it on
deck amidships that surged from one rail to the other as the craft
rolled, pouring over and coming back. All hatches were ripped off, and
our three boats were carried away from their chocks on the house.
"Six men were clearing themselves from their lashings at the fore
rigging, and three more, who had gone overboard with the first sea, and
had caught the upper gear to be lifted as the craft righted, were
coming down, while the professor still declaimed from the alley.
"'Hang on all,' I yelled; 'there's another sea coming.'
"It came, but passed over us without doing any more damage, and though
a fourth, fifth, and sixth followed, each was of lesser force than the
last, and finally it was safe to leave the rail and wade about, though
we still rolled rails under in what was left of the turmoil.
"Luckily, there was no wind, though I never understood why, for
earthquakes are usually accompanied by squalls. However, even with
wind, our canvas would have been no use to us; for, waterlogged as we
were, we couldn't have made a knot an hour, nor could we have steered,
even with all sail set. All we could hope for was the appearance of
some craft that would tow the ripped and shivered hull to port, or at
least take us off.
"So, while I searched for the ax, and the professor searched into the
depths under the main hatch for signs of his menagerie--all drowned,
surely--the remnant of the crew lowered the foresail and jibs, stowing
them as best they could.
"I found the ax, and found it just in time; for I was attacked by what
could have been nothing but a small-sized sea serpent, that had been
hove up to the surface and washed aboard us. It was only about six feet
long, but it had a mouth like a bulldog, and a row of spikes along its
back that could have sawed a man's leg off.
"I managed to kill it before it harmed me, and chucked it overboard
against the protests of the professor, who averred that I took no
interest in science.
"'No, I don't,' I said to him. 'I've other things to think of. And you,
too. You'd better go below and clean up your instruments, or you'll
find them ruined by salt water.'
"He looked sorrowfully and reproachfully at me, and started to wade
aft; but he halted at the forward companion, and turned, for a scream
of agony rang out from the forecastle deck, where the men were coming
in from the jibs, and I saw one of them writhing on his back,
apparently in a fit, while the others stood wonderingly around.
"The forecastle deck was just out of water, and there was no wash; but
in spite of this, the wriggling, screaming man slid head-first along
the break and plunged into the water on the main deck.
"I scrambled forward, still carrying the ax, and the men tumbled down
into the water after the man; but we could not get near him. We could
see him under water, feebly moving, but not swimming; and yet he shot
this way and that faster than a man ever swam; and once, as he passed
near me, I noticed a gaping wound in his neck, from which the blood was
flowing in a stream--a stream like a current, which did not mix with
the water and discolor it.
"Soon his movements ceased, and I waded toward him; but he shot swiftly
away from me, and I did not follow, for something cold, slimy, and firm
touched my hand--something in the water, but which I could not see.
"I floundered back, still holding the ax, and sang out to the men to
keep away from the dead man; for he was surely dead by now. He lay
close to the break of the topgallant forecastle, on the starboard side;
and as the men mustered around me I gave one my ax, told the rest to
secure others, and to chop away the useless wreck pounding our port
side--useless because it was past all seamanship to patch up that
basketlike hull, pump it out, and raise jury rigging.
"While they were doing it, I secured a long pike pole from its beckets,
and, joined by the professor, cautiously approached the body prodding
ahead of me.
"As I neared the dead man, the pike pole was suddenly torn from my
grasp, one end sank to the deck, while the other raised above the
water; then it slid upward, fell, and floated close to me. I seized it
again and turned to the professor.
"'What do you make of this, Herr Smidt?' I asked. 'There is something
down there that we cannot see--something that killed that man. See the
blood?'
"He peered closely at the dead man, who looked curiously distorted and
shrunken, four feet under water. But the blood no longer was a thin
stream issuing from his neck; it was gathered into a misshapen mass
about two feet away from his neck.
"'Nonsense,' he answered. 'Something alive which we cannot see is
contrary to all laws of physics. Der man must have fallen und hurt
himself, which accounts for der bleeding. Den he drowned in der water.
Do you see?--mine Gott! What iss?'
"He suddenly went under water himself, and dropping the pike pole, I
grabbed him by the collar and braced myself. Something was pulling him
away from me, but I managed to get his head out, and he spluttered:
"'Help! Holdt on to me. Something haf my right foot.'
"'Lend a hand here,' I yelled to the men, and a few joined me, grabbing
him by his clothing. Together we pulled against the invisible force,
and finally all of us went backward, professor and all, nearly to drown
ourselves before regaining our feet. Then, as the agitated water
smoothed, I distinctly saw the mass of red move slowly forward and
disappear in the darkness under the forecastle deck.
"'You were right, mine friend,' said the professor, who, in spite of
his experience, held his nerve. 'Dere is something invisible in der
water--something dangerous, something which violates all laws of
physics und optics. Oh, mine foot, how it hurts!'
"'Get aft,' I answered, 'and find out what ails it. And you fellows,' I
added to the men, 'keep away from the forecastle deck. Whatever it is,
it has gone under it.'
"Then I grabbed the pike pole again, cautiously hooked the barb into
the dead man's clothing, and, assisted by the men, pulled him aft to
the poop, where the professor had preceded, and was examining his
ankle. There was a big, red wale around it, in the middle of which was
a huge blood blister. He pricked it with his knife, then rearranged his
stocking and joined us as we lifted the body.
"'Great God, sir!' exclaimed big Bill, the bosun. 'Is that Frank? I
wouldn't know him.'
"Frank, the dead man, had been strong, robust, and full-blooded. But he
bore no resemblance to his living self. He lay there, shrunken,
shortened, and changed, a look of agony on his emaciated face, and his
hands clenched--not extended like those of one drowned.
"'I thought drowned men swelled up,' ventured one of the men.
"'He was not drowned,' said Herr Smidt. 'He was sucked dry, like a
lemon. Perhaps in his whole body there is not an ounce of blood,
|
An open hearth was in the
middle of the earthen floor of the hall, which was strewn with
rushes. There was a hole in the roof to let out the smoke. Here
the landholder and his men would eat meat, bread, salt, hot spiced
ale, and mead while listening to minstrels sing about the heroic
deeds of their ancestors. Richer men drank wine. There were
festivals which lasted several days, in which warriors feasted,
drank, gambled, boasted, and slept where they fell. Physical
strength and endurance in adversity were admired traits.
Slaves often were used as grain grinders, ploughmen, sowers,
haywards, woodwards, shepherds, goatherds, swineherds, oxherds,
cowherds, dairymaids, and barnmen. Slaves had no legal rights. A
lord could kill his slave at will. A wrong done to a slave was
regarded as done to his owner. If a person killed another man's
slave, he had to compensate him with the slave's purchase price.
The slave owner had to answer for the offences of his slaves
against others, as for the mischief done by his cattle. Since a
slave had no property, he could not be fined for crimes, but was
whipped, mutilated, or killed.
During famine, acorns, beans, peas, and even bark were ground down
to supplement flour when grain stocks grew low. People scoured the
hedgerows for herbs, roots, nettles, and wild grasses, which were
usually left for the pigs. Sometimes people were driven to
infanticide or group suicide by jumping together off a cliff or
into the water.
Several large kingdoms came to replace the many small ones. The
people were worshipping pagan gods when St. Augustine came to
England in 596 A.D. to Christianize them. King AEthelbert of Kent
[much later a county] and his wife, who had been raised Christian
on the continent, met him when he arrived. The King gave him land
where there were ruins of an old city. Augustine used stones from
the ruins to build a church which was later called Canterbury. He
also built the first St. Paul's church in London. Aethelbert and
his men who fought with him and ate and lived in his household
[gesiths] became Christian. A succession of princesses went out
from Kent to marry other Saxon kings and convert them to
Christianity.
Augustine knew how to write, but King AEthelbert did not. The King
announced his laws at meetings of his people and his eorls would
decide the punishments. There was a fine of 120s. for disregarding
a command of the King. He and Augustine decided to write down some
of these laws, which now included the King's new law concerning
the church.
These laws concern personal injury, killing, theft, burglary,
marriage, adultery, and inheritance. The blood feud's private
revenge for killing had been replaced by payment of compensation
to the dead man's kindred. One paid a man's "wergeld" [worth] to
his kindred for causing his wrongful death. The wergeld [wer] of a
king was an unpayable amount of about 7000s., of an aetheling [a
king-worthy man of the extended royal family] was 1500s., of an
eorl, 300s., of a ceorl, 100s., of a laet [agricultural worker in
Kent, which class was between free and slave], 40-80s., and of a
slave nothing. At this time a shilling could buy a cow in Kent or
a sheep elsewhere. If a ceorl killed an eorl, he paid three times
as much as an eorl would have paid as murderer. The penalty for
slander was tearing out of the tongue. If an aetheling was guilty
of this offense, his tongue was worth five times that of a coerl,
so he had to pay proportionately more to ransom it. The crimes of
murder, treachery to one's own lord, arson, house breaking, and
open theft, were punishable by death and forfeiture of all
property.
- The Law -
"THESE ARE THE DOOMS [DECREES] WHICH KING AETHELBERHT ESTABLISHED
IN THE DAYS OF AUGUSTINE
1. [Theft of] the property of God and of the church [shall be
compensated], twelve fold; a bishop's property, eleven fold; a
priest's property, nine fold; a deacon's property, six fold; a
cleric's property, three fold; church frith [breach of the peace
of the church; right of sanctuary and protection given to those
within its precincts], two fold [that of ordinary breach of the
public peace]; m....frith [breach of the peace of a meeting
place], two fold.
2. If the King calls his leod [his people] to him, and any one
there do them evil, [let him compensate with] a two-fold bot
[damages for the injury], and 50 shillings to the King.
3. If the King drink at any one's home, and any one there do any
lyswe [evil deed], let him make two-fold bot.
4. If a freeman steal from the King, let him repay nine fold.
5. If a man slay another in the King's tun [enclosed dwelling
premises], let him make bot with 50 shillings.
6. If any one slay a freeman, 50 shillings to the King, as drihtin
beah [payment to a lord in compensaton for killing his freeman].
7. If the King's ambiht smith [smith or carpenter] or laad rine
[man who walks before the King or guide or escort], slay a man,
let him pay a half leod geld.
8. [Offenses against anyone or anyplace under] the King's mund
byrd [protection or patronage], 50 shillings.
9. If a freeman steal from a freeman, let him make threefold bot;
and let the King have the wite [fine] and all the chattels
[necessary to pay the fine]. (Chattels was a variant of "cattle".)
10. If a man lie with the King's maiden [female servant], let him
pay a bot of 50 shillings.
11. If she be a grinding slave, let him pay a bot of 25 shillings.
The third [class of servant] 12 shillings.
12. Let the King's fed esl [woman who serves him food or nurse] be
paid for with 20 shillings.
13. If a man slay another in an eorl's tun [premises], let [him]
make bot with 12 shillings.
14. If a man lie with an eorl's birele [female cupbearer], let him
make bot with 12 shillings.
15. [Offenses against a person or place under] a ceorl's mund byrd
[protection], 6 shillings.
16. If a man lie with a ceorl's birele [female cupbearer], let him
make bot with 6 shillings; with a slave of the second [class], 50
scaetts; with one of the third, 30 scaetts.
17. If any one be the first to invade a man's tun [premises], let
him make bot with 6 shillings; let him who follows, with 3
shillings; after, each, a shilling.
18. If a man furnish weapons to another where there is a quarrel,
though no injury results, let him make bot with 6 shillings.
19. If a weg reaf [highway robbery] be done [with weapons
furnished by another], let him [the man who provided the weapons]
make bot with 6 shillings.
20. If the man be slain, let him [the man who provided the
weapons] make bot with 20 shillings.
21. If a [free] man slay another, let him make bot with a half
leod geld [wergeld for manslaughter] of 100 shillings.
22. If a man slay another, at the open grave let him pay 20
shillings, and pay the whole leod within 40 days.
23. If the slayer departs from the land, let his kindred pay a
half leod.
24. If any one bind a freeman, let him make bot with 20 shillings.
25. If any one slay a ceorl's hlaf aeta [loaf or bread eater;
domestic or menial servant], let him make bot with 6 shillings.
26. If [anyone] slay a laet of the highest class, let him pay 80
shillings; of the second class, let him pay 60 shillings; of the
third class, let him pay 40 shillings.
27. If a freeman commit edor breach [breaking through the fenced
enclosure and forcibly entering a ceorl's dwelling], let him make
bot with 6 shillings.
28. If any one take property from a dwelling, let him pay a three-
fold bot.
29. If a freeman goes with hostile intent through an edor [the
fence enclosing a dwelling], let him make bot with 4 shillings.
30. If [in so doing] a man slay another, let him pay with his own
money, and with any sound property whatever.
31. If a freeman lie with a freeman's wife, let him pay for it
with his wer geld, and obtain another wife with his own money, and
bring her to the other [man's dwelling].
32. If any one thrusts through the riht ham scyld [legal means of
protecting one's home], let him adequately compensate.
33. If there be feax fang [seizing someone by the hair], let there
be 50 sceatts for bot.
34. If there be an exposure of the bone, let bot be made with 3
shillings.
35. If there be an injury to the bone, let bot be made with 4
shillings.
36. If the outer hion [outer membrane covering the brain] be
broken, let bot be made with 10 shillings.
37. If it be both [outer and inner membranes covering the brain],
let bot be made with 20 shillings.
38. If a shoulder be lamed, let bot be made with 30 shillings.
39. If an ear be struck off, let bot be made with 12 shillings.
40. If the other ear hear not, let bot be made with 25 shillings.
41. If an ear be pierced, let bot be made with 3 shillings.
42. If an ear be mutilated, let bot be made with 6 shillings.
43. If an eye be [struck] out, let bot be made with 50 shillings.
44. If the mouth or an eye be injured, let bot be made with 12
shillings.
45. If the nose be pierced, let bot be made with 9 shillings.
46. If it be one ala, let bot be made with 3 shillings.
47. If both be pierced, let bot be made with 6 shillings.
48. If the nose be otherwise mutilated, for each [cut, let] bot be
made with 6 shillings.
49. If it be pierced, let bot be made with 6 shillings.
50. Let him who breaks the jaw bone pay for it with 20 shillings.
51. For each of the four front teeth, 6 shillings; for the tooth
which stands next to them 4 shillings; for that which stands next
to that, 3 shillings; and then afterwards, for each a shilling.
52. If the speech be injured, 12 shillings. If the collar bone be
broken, let bot be made with 6 shillings.
53. Let him who stabs [another] through an arm, make bot with 6
shillings. If an arm be broken, let him make bot with 6 shillings.
54. If a thumb be struck off, 20 shillings. If a thumb nail be
off, let bot be made with 3 shillings. If the shooting [fore]
finger be struck off, let bot be made with 8 shillings. If the
middle finger be struck off, let bot be made with 4 shillings. If
the gold [ring]finger be struck off, let bot be made with 6
shillings. If the little finger be struck off, let bot be made
with 11 shillings.
55. For every nail, a shilling.
56. For the smallest disfigurement of the face, 3 shillings; and
for the greater, 6 shillings.
57. If any one strike another with his fist on the nose, 3
shillings.
58. If there be a bruise [on the nose], a shilling; if he receive
a right hand bruise [from protecting his face with his arm], let
him [the striker] pay a shilling.
59. If the bruise [on the arm] be black in a part not covered by
the clothes, let bot be made with 30 scaetts.
60. If it be covered by the clothes, let bot for each be made with
20 scaetts.
61. If the belly be wounded, let bot be made with 12 shillings; if
it be pierced through, let bot be made with 20 shillings.
62. If any one be gegemed [pregnant], let bot be made with 30
shillings.
63. If any one be cear wund [badly wounded], let bot be made with
3 shillings.
64. If any one destroy [another's] organ of generation [penis],
let him pay him with 3 leod gelds: if he pierce it through, let
him make bot with 6 shillings; if it be pierced within, let him
make bot with 6 shillings.
65. If a thigh be broken, let bot be made with 12 shillings; if
the man become halt [lame], then friends must arbitrate.
66. If a rib be broken, let bot be made with 3 shillings.
67. If [the skin of] a thigh be pierced through, for each stab 6
shillings; if [the wound be] above an inch [deep], a shilling;
for two inches, 2; above three, 3 shillings.
68. If a sinew be wounded, let bot be made with 3 shillings.
69. If a foot be cut off, let 50 shillings be paid.
70. If a great toe be cut off, let 10 shillings be paid.
71. For each of the other toes, let one half that for the
corresponding finger be paid.
72. If the nail of a great toe be cut off, 30 scaetts for bot; for
each of the others, make bot with 10 scaetts.
73. If a freewoman loc bore [with long hair] commit any leswe
[evil deed], let her make a bot of 30 shillings.
74. Let maiden bot [compensation for injury to an unmarried woman]
be as that of a freeman.
75. For [breach of] the mund [protection] of a widow of the best
class, of an eorl's degree, let the bot be 50 shillings; of the
second, 20 shillings; of the third, 12 shillings; of the fourth, 6
shillings.
76. If a man carry off a widow not under his own protection by
right, let the mund be twofold.
77. If a man buy a maiden with cattle, let the bargain stand, if
it be without fraud; but if there be fraud, let him bring her home
again, and let his property be restored to him.
78. If she bear a live child, she shall have half the property, if
the husband die first.
79. If she wish to go away with her children, she shall have half
the property.
80. If the husband wish to keep them [the children], [she shall
have the same portion] as one child.
81. If she bear no child, her paternal kindred shall have the fioh
[her money and chattels] and the morgen gyfe [morning gift: a gift
made to the bride by her husband on the morning following the
consummation of the marriage].
82. If a man carry off a maiden by force, let him pay 50 shillings
to the owner, and afterwards buy [the object of] his will from the
owner.
83. If she be betrothed to another man in money [at a bride
price], let him [who carried her off] make bot with 20 shillings.
84. If she become gaengang [pregnant], 35 shillings; and 15
shillings to the King.
85. If a man lie with an esne's wife, her husband still living,
let him make twofold bot.
86. If one esne slay another unoffending, let him pay for him at
his full worth.
87. If an esne's eye and foot be struck out or off, let him be
paid for at his full worth.
88. If any one bind another man's esne, let him make bot with 6
shillings.
89. Let [compensation for] weg reaf [highway robbery] of a theow
[slave] be 3 shillings.
90. If a theow steal, let him make twofold bot [twice the value of
the stolen goods]."
- Judicial Procedure -
The King and his freemen would hear and decide cases of wrongful
behavior such as breach of the peace. Punishment would be given to
the offender by the community.
There were occasional meetings of "hundreds", which were 100
households, to settle wide-spread disputes. The chief officer was
"hundreder" or "constable". He was responsible for keeping the
peace of the hundred.
The Druid priests decided all disputes of the Celts.
- - - Chapter 2 - - -
- The Times: 600-900 -
The country was inhabited by Anglo-Saxons. The French called it
"Angleterre", which means the angle or end of the earth. It was
called "Angle land", which later became "England".
A community was usually an extended family. Its members lived a
village in which a stone church was the most prominent building.
They lived in one-room huts with walls and roofs made of wood,
mud, and straw. Hangings covered the cracks in the walls to keep
the wind out. Smoke from a fire in the middle of the room filtered
out of cracks in the roof. Grain was ground at home by rotating by
hand one stone disk on another stone disk. Some villages had a
mill powered by the flow of water or by horses. All freeholders
had the duty of watch [at night] and ward [during the day], of
following the hue and cry to chase an offender, and of taking the
oath of peace. These three duties were constant until 1195.
Farmland surrounded the villages and was farmed by the community
as a whole under the direction of a lord. There was silver,
copper, iron, tin, gold, and various types of stones from remote
lead mines and quarries in the nation. Silver pennies replaced the
smaller scaetts. Freemen paid "scot" and bore "lot" according to
their means for local purposes.
Everyone in the village went to church on Sunday and brought gifts
such as grain to the priest. Later, contributions in the form of
money became customary, and then expected. They were called
"tithes" and were spent for church repair, the clergy, and poor
and needy laborers. Local custom determined the amount. There was
also church-scot: a payment to the clergy in lieu of the first
fruits of the land. The priest was the chaplain of a landlord and
his parish was coextensive with that landlord's holding and could
include one to several villages. The priest and other men who
helped him, lived in the church building. Some churches had lead
roofs and iron hinges, latches, and locks on their doors. The land
underneath had been given to the church by former kings and
persons who wanted the church to say prayers to help their souls
go from purgatory to heaven and who also selected the first
priest. The priest conducted Christianized Easter ceremonies in
the spring and (Christ's mass) ceremonies in winter in place of
the pagan Yuletide festivities. Burning incense took the place of
pagan burnt animal offerings, which were accompanied by incense to
disguise the odor of burning flesh. Holy water replaced haunted
wells and streams. Christian incantations replaced sorcerer's
spells. Nuns assisted priests in celebrating mass and
administering the sacraments. They alone consecrated new nuns.
Vestry meetings were community meetings held for church purposes.
The people said their prayers in English, and the priest conducted
the services in English. A person joined his hands in prayer as if
to offer them for binding together in submission.
The church baptized babies and officiated or gave blessings at
marriage ceremonies. It also said prayers for the dying, gave them
funerals, and buried them. There were burial service fees, candle
dues, and plough alms. A piece of stone with the dead person's
name marked his grave. It was thought that putting the name on the
grave would assist identification of that person for being taken
to heaven. The church heard the last wish or will of the person
dying concerning who he wanted to have his property. The church
taught that it was not necessary to bury possessions with the
deceased. The church taught boys and girls.
Every man carried a horn slung on his shoulder as he went about
his work so that he could at once send out a warning to his fellow
villagers or call them in chasing a thief or other offender. The
forests were full of outlaws, so strangers who did not blow a horn
to announce themselves were presumed to be fugitive offenders who
could be shot on sight. An eorl could call upon the ceorl farmers
for about forty days to fight off an invading group.
There were several kingdoms, whose boundaries kept changing due to
warfare, which was a sin according to the church. They were each
governed by a king and witan of wise men who met at a witanegemot,
which was usually held three times a year, mostly on great church
festivals and at the end of the harvest. The king and witan chose
the witan's members of bishops, eorldormen, and thegns
[landholding farmers]. The king and hereditary claims played a
major part in the selection of the eorldormen, who were the
highest military leaders and often of the royal family. They were
also chief magistrates of large jurisdictional areas of land. The
witan included officers of the king's household and perhaps other
of his retinue. There was little distinction then between his
gesith, fighting men, guards, household companions, dependents,
and servants. The king was sometimes accompanied by his wife and
sons at the witanagemot. A king was selected by the witan
according to his worthiness, usually from among the royal family,
and could be deposed by it. The witan and king decided on laws,
taxes, and transfers of land. They made determinations of war and
peace and directed the army and the fleet. The king wore a crown
or royal helmet. He extended certain protections by the king's
peace. He could erect castles and bridges and could provide a
special protection to strangers.
A king had not only a wergeld to be paid to his family if he were
killed, but a "cynebot" of equal amount that would be paid to his
kingdom's people. A king's household had a chamberlain for the
royal bedchamber, a marshall to oversee the horses and military
equipment, a steward as head of household, and a cupbearer. The
king had income from fines for breach of his peace; fines and
forfeitures from courts dealing with criminal and civil cases;
salvage from ship wrecks; treasure trove [assets hidden or buried
in times of war]; treasures of the earht such as gold and silver;
mines; saltworks; tolls and other dues of markets, ports, and the
routes by land and by river generally; heriot from heirs of his
special dependents for possession of land (usually in kind,
principally in horses and weapons). He also had rights of
purveyance [hospitality and maintenance when traveling]. The king
had private lands, which he could dispose of by his will. He also
had crown lands, which belonged to his office and could not be
alienated without consent of the witan. Crown lands often included
palaces and their appendant farms, and burhs. It was a queen's
duty to run the royal estate. Also, a queen could possess, manage,
and dispose of lands in her name. Violent queens waged wars.
Kingdoms were often allied by marriage between their royal
families. There were also royal marriages to royalty on the
continent.
The houses of the wealthy had ornamented silk hangings on the
walls. Some had fine white ox horn shaved so thin they were
transparent for windows. Brightly colored drapery, often purple,
and fly nets surrounded their beds, which were covered with the
fur of animals. They slept in bed clothes on pillows stuffed with
straw. Tables plated with silver and gems held silver
candlesticks, gold and silver goblets and cups, and lamps of gold,
silver, or glass. They used silver mirrors and silver writing
pens. There were covered seats, benches, and footstools with the
head and feet of animals at their extremities. They ate from a
table covered with a cloth. Servants brought in food on spits,
from which they ate. Food was boiled, broiled, or baked. The
wealthy ate wheat bread and others ate barley bread. Ale made from
barley was passed around in a cup. Mead made from honey was also
drunk.
Men wore long-sleeved wool and linen garments reaching almost to
the knee, around which they wore a belt tied in a knot. Men often
wore a gold ring on the fourth finger of the right hand. Leather
shoes were fastened with leather thongs around the ankle. Their
hair was parted in the middle and combed down each side in waving
ringlets. The beard was parted in the middle of the chin, so that
it ended in two points. The clergy did not wear beards. Great men
wore gold-embroidered clothes, gilt buckles and brooches, and
drank from drinking horns mounted in silver gilt or in gold. Well-
to-do women wore brightly colored robes with waist bands,
headbands, necklaces, gem bracelets, and rings. Their long hair
was in ringlets and they put rouge on their cheeks. They had
beads, pins, needles, tweezers of bronze, and workboxes of bronze,
some highly ornamented. They were often doing needlework. Silk was
affordable only by the wealthy.
Most families kept a pig and pork was the primary meat. There were
also sheep, goats, cows, deer, hare, and fowl. Fowl was obtained
by fowlers who trapped them. The inland waters yielded eels,
salmon, and trout. In the fall, meat was salted to preserve it for
winter meals. There were orchards growing figs, nuts, grapes,
almonds, pears, and apples. Also produced were beans, lentils,
onions, eggs, cheese, and butter. Pepper and cinnamon were
imported.
Fishing from the sea yielded herrings, sturgeon, porpoise,
oysters, crabs, and other fish. Sometimes a whale was driven into
an inlet by a group of boats. Whale skins were used to make ropes.
The roads were not much more than trails. They were often so
narrow that two pack horses could hardly pass each other. The pack
horses each carried two bales or two baskets slung over their
backs, which balanced each other. The soft soil was compacted into
a deep ditch which rains, floods, and tides, if near the sea, soon
turned into a river. Traveling a far distance was unsafe as there
were robbers on the roads. Traveling strangers were distrusted. It
was usual to wash one's feet in a hot tub after traveling and to
dry them with a rough wool cloth.
There were superstitions about the content of dreams, the events
of the moon, and the flights and voices of birds were often seen
as signs or omens of future events. Herbal mixtures were drunk for
sickness and maladies. From the witch hazel plant was made a mild
alcoholic astringent, which was probably used to clean cuts and
sooth abraisons.
In the peaceful latter part of the 600s, Theodore, who had been a
monk in Rome, was appointed archbishop and visited all the island
speaking about the right rule of life and ordaining bishops to
oversee the priests. Each kingdom was split up into dioceses each
with one bishop. Thereafter, bishops were selected by the king and
his witan, usually after consulting the clergy and even the people
of the diocese. The bishops came to be the most permanent element
of society. They had their sees in villages or rural monasteries.
The bishops came to have the same wergeld as an eorldorman:
1200s., which was the price of about 500 oxen. A priest had the
wergeld as a landholding farmer [thegn], or 300s. The bishops
spoke Latin, but the priests of the local parishes spoke English.
Theodore was the first archbishop whom all the English church
obeyed. He taught sacred and secular literature, the books of holy
writ, ecclesiastical poetry, astronomy, arithmetic, and sacred
music. Theodore discouraged slavery by denying Christian burial to
the kidnapper and forbidding the sale of children over the age of
seven. A slave became entitled to two loaves a day and to his
holydays. A slave was allowed to buy his or his children's
freedom. In 673, Theodore started annual national ecclesiastical
assemblies, for instance for the witnessing of important actions.
The bishops, some abbots, the king, and the eorldormen were
usually present. From them the people learned the benefit of
common national action. There were two archbishops: one of
Canterbury in the south and one of York in the north. They
governed the bishops and could meet with them to issue canons that
would be equally valid all over the land. A bishop's house
contained some clerks, priests, monks, and nun and was a retreat
for the weary missionary and a school for the young. The bishop
had a deacon who acted as a secretary and companion in travel, and
sometimes as an interpreter. Ink was made from the outer husks of
walnuts steeped in vinegar.
The learned ecclesiastical life flourished in monastic
communities, in which both monks and nuns lived. Hilda, a noble's
daughter, became the first nun in Northumbria and abbess of one of
its monasteries. There she taught justice, piety, chastity, peace,
and charity. Several monks taught there later became bishops.
Kings and princes often asked her advice. Many abbesses came to
run monastic communities; they were from royal families. Women,
especially from royal families, fled to monasteries to obtain
shelter from unwanted marriage or to avoid their husbands. Kings
and eorldormen retired to them.
Danish Vikings made several invasions in the 800s for which a
danegeld tax on land was assessed on everyone every ten to twenty
years. The amount was determined by the witan and was typically
2s. per hide of land. (A hide was probably the amount of land
which could support a family or household for a year or as much
land as could be tilled annually by a single plow.) It was stored
in a strong box under the King's bed. King Alfred the Great, who
had lived for awhile in Rome, unified the country to defeat the
invaders. He established fortifications called "burhs", usually on
hill tops or other strategic locations on the borders to control
the main road and river routes into his realm. The burhs were
seminal towns. They were typically walled enclosures with towers
and an outer ditch and mound, instead of the hedge or fence
enclosure of a tun. Inside were several wooden thatched huts and a
couple of churches, which were lit by earthen oil lamps. The
populace met at burh-gemots. The land area protected by each burh
became known as a "shire", which means a share of a larger whole.
The shire or local landowners were responsible for repairing the
burh fortifications. There were about thirty shires.
Alfred gathered together fighting men who were at his disposal,
which included eorldormen with their hearthbands (retinues of men
each of whom had chosen to swear to fight to the death for their
eorldorman, and some of whom were of high rank), the King's
thegns, shire thegns (local landholding farmers, who were required
to bring fighting equipment such as swords, helmets, chainmail,
and horses), and ordinary freemen, i.e. ceorls (who carried food,
dug fortifications, and sometimes fought). Since the King was
compelled to call out the whole population to arms, the
distinction between the king's thegns from other landholders
disappeared. Some great lords organized men under them, whom they
provisioned. These vassals took a personal oath to their lord "on
condition that he keep me as I am willing to deserve, and fulfill
all that was agreed on when I became his man, and chose his will
as mine." Alfred had a small navy of longships with 60 oars to
fight the Viking longships.
Alfred divided his army into two parts so that one half of the men
were fighting while the other half was at home sowing and
harvesting for those fighting. Thus, any small-scale independent
farming was supplanted by the open-field system, cultivation of
common land, more large private estates headed by a lord, and a
more stratified society in which the king and important families
more powerful and the peasants more curtailed. The witan became
mere witnesses. Many free coerls of the older days became bonded.
The village community tended to become a large private estate
headed by a lord. But the lord does not have the power to encroach
upon the rights of common that exist within the community.
In 886, a treaty between Alfred and the Vikings divided the
country along the war front and made the wergeld of every free
farmer, whether English or Viking, 200s. Men of higher rank were
given a wergeld of 4 1/2 marks of pure gold. A mark was probably a
Viking denomination and a mark of gold was equal to nine marks of
silver in later times and probably in this time. The word "earl"
replaced the word "eorldormen" and the word "thegn" replaced the
word "aetheling" after the Danish settlement. The ironed pleats of
Viking clothing indicated a high status of the wearer. The Vikings
brought combs and the practice of regular hair-combing to England.
King Alfred gave land with jurisdictional powers within its
boundaries such as the following: "This is the bequest which King
Alfred make unequivocally to Shaftesbury, to the praise of God and
St. Mary and all the saints of God, for the benefit of my soul,
namely a hundred hides as they stand with their produce and their
men, and my daughter AEthelgifu to the convent along with the
inheritance, since she took the veil on account of
|
whales spout she knows they are telling the mermaids to come home.
[Illustration: headpiece to The Mirror’s Dream]
*THE MIRROR’S DREAM*
"The very idea of putting me in the attic!" said the little
old-fashioned table, as it spread out both leaves in a gesture of
despair. "I have stood in the parlor down-stairs for fifty years, and
now I am consigned to the rubbish-room," and it dropped its leaves at
its side with a sigh.
"I was there longer than that," said the sofa. "Many a courtship I have
helped along."
"What do you think of me?" asked an old mirror that stood on the floor,
leaning against the wall. "To be brought to the attic after reflecting
generation after generation. All the famous beauties have looked into
my face; it is a degradation from which I can never recover. This young
mistress who has come here to live does not seem to understand the
dignity of our position. Why, I was in the family when her husband’s
grandmother was a girl and she has doomed me to a dusty attic to dream
out the rest of my days."
The shadows deepened in the room and gradually the discarded mirror
ceased to complain. It had fallen asleep, but later the moonlight
streamed in through the window and showed that its dreams were pleasant
ones, for it dreamed of the old and happy days.
The door opened softly and a young girl entered. Her hair was dark and
hung in curls over her white shoulders. Her dark eyes wandered over the
room until she saw the old mirror.
She ran across the room and stood in front of it. She wore a hoop-skirt
over which hung her dress of pale gray, with tiny pink ruffles that
began at her slender waist and ended at the bottom of her wide skirt.
Tiny pink rosebuds were dotted over the waist and skirt, and she also
wore them in her dark curls, where one stray blossom bolder than the
others rested against her soft cheek.
She stood before the mirror and gazed at her reflection a minute; then
she curtsied, and said, with a laugh, "I think you will do; he must
speak to-night."
She seemed to fade away in the moonlight, and the door opened again and
a lady entered, and with her came five handsome children.
They went to the mirror, and one little girl with dark curls and pink
cheeks went close and touched it with her finger. "Look," she said to
the others, "I look just like the picture of mother when she was a
girl." And as they stood there a gentleman appeared beside them and put
his arm around the lady and the children gathered around them. They
seemed to walk along the moonlight path and disappear through the
window.
Softly the door opened again and an old lady entered, leaning on the arm
of an old gentleman. They walked to the mirror and he put his arms
around her and kissed her withered cheek.
"You are always young and fair to me," he said, and her face smiled into
the depths of the old mirror.
The moonlight made a halo around their heads as they faded away.
The morning light streamed in through the window and the mirror’s dream
was ended.
By and by the door opened and a young girl came in the room. Her dark
hair was piled high on her head, and her dark eyes looked over the room
until they fell upon a chest in the corner. She went to it and opened
it and took out a pale-gray dress with pink ruffles. She put it on;
then she let down her hair, which fell in curls over her shoulders.
She ran to the old mirror and looked at herself. "I do look like
grandmother," she said. "I will wear this to the old folks’ party
to-night. Grandfather proposed to grandmother the night she wore this
dress." Her cheeks turned very pink as she said this, and she ran out
of the room.
Then one day the door opened again and a bride entered, leaning on the
arm of her young husband. There were tears in her eyes, although she was
smiling. She led him in front of the old mirror. "This old mirror," she
said, "has seen all the brides in our family for generations, and I am
going far away and may never look into it again. My brother’s wife does
not want it down-stairs, and I may be the last bride it will ever see,"
and she passed her hand over its frame caressingly.
And then she went away and the old mirror was left to its dreams for
many years. Then one day the door opened again and a lady entered; with
her was a young girl.
The lady looked around the attic room until she saw the mirror. "There
it is," she said. "Come and look in it, dear." The young girl followed
her. "The last time I looked into this dear old mirror," the lady said,
"was the day your father and I were married. I never expected to have
it for my own then. But your uncle’s wife wants to remodel the house,
and these things are in the way; she does not want old-fashioned things,
and they are willing I should have them."
"Oh, mother, they are beautiful!" said the girl, looking around the
room. "We will never part with them; we will take them to our home and
make them forget they were ever discarded."
And so the mirror and the sofa and the table and many other pieces of
bygone days went to live where they were loved, and the old mirror still
reflects dark-haired girls and ladies, who smile into its depths and see
its beauty as well as their own.
[Illustration: headpiece to The Contest]
*THE CONTEST*
The old white rooster was dead.
The hens stood in groups of threes and fours all around the yard, the
turkeys were gathered around the big gobbler and seemed to be talking
very earnestly.
The ducks stood around the old drake, who was shaking his head
emphatically as he talked.
The geese were listening very attentively to the gander, and he was
stretching his neck and seemed to be trying to impress them with its
length.
"I see no reason now why I should not be king of the yard," he was
saying. "White Rooster is dead and there is no other rooster to take
his place. I am going to see the hens and ask them what they think.
"White Rooster is dead," he said to them, "and I think I should be king
of the yard. My neck is very long and I can see over the heads of all
the fowls; I see no reason why I should not take the place of White
Rooster."
The turkeys and the geese, seeing the gander approach the hens, ran as
fast as they could to hear what he was saying.
The turkey gobbler, hearing the last part of the gander’s remark, said:
"How can you say that you can see over all heads? Have you forgotten me
and my height? And as for being king," he said, "the rooster never
should have been cock of the walk. I am a much more majestic-looking
bird than any rooster. No, indeed, you should never think of ruling, Sir
Gander. I should be king of the yard."
The gobbler walked away, spreading out his wings and letting them drag
on the ground and gobbling very loudly.
The ducks and the drake stood listening to all this talk, and as the
gobbler walked away the drake said: "I cannot understand why any one
should think of being king when I know so much of the world. I am the
one to rule, for I have been all around the pond, and it is very large;
because of my knowledge I think I should be king."
"He must not be king," whispered one old hen to another; "he would make
us go in the water, and we will all be drowned."
They had talked a long time without reaching any decision, when the dog
happened along. "What is the matter?" he asked.
"The old white rooster is dead," said the gobbler, who had returned with
his family to hear the discussion, "and I think I should be king, and
the drake and the gander think they should, but, of course, you can see
that I am best suited to rule the yard."
"You can settle that very easily," said the dog. "You can all take a
turn at being king, and in that way you will know who is best suited to
rule." And so it was decided, and the gobbler was the first one to go
on trial. The poor hens tagged along after the turkeys, for the gobbler
insisted upon parading all around the yard. The gander and the drake
would not follow behind, so the gander and his family walked on one side
of the gobbler, and the drake and his family on the other.
The poor hens wept as they followed behind. "I never was so humiliated
in my life," said one old hen, "and it is not right."
The next day there was so much dissatisfaction because of the gobbler’s
overbearing way that the dog decided that the drake must take his turn.
"Everybody must learn to swim," said the drake as soon as he was
appointed ruler. "Come down to the pond," and off he started, his
family waddling after him.
"What did I tell you?" said the old hen. "This will be the end of us."
The geese did not mind being in the water part of the time, but the
turkeys set up such a gobble and the hens cackled so loudly that the dog
had to decide right there that the drake was not a suitable king.
The gander, knowing that his time had come, stretched his neck and
looked very important.
"You need not go near the pond," he said to the hens, "but you must
learn to fly," and he spread out his wings as he spoke and flew over the
fence, the geese following him.
The turkeys flew to the top of the fence and roosted there, but the hens
and ducks stood on the ground, looking up at them in the most
discouraged way, and at the gobbler, who gobbled at them, saying, "You
are to be pitied, for you do not see all the sights we do and you never
can fly to the top of this fence.
"There is the master," he said. "He is coming down the road and he has
something under his arm. I’ll tell you what it is when he gets nearer."
The hens were trying to look under the fence and through the holes.
The gobbler looked for a minute, and then he said: "I do believe--" then
he stopped. "Yes, it is," he continued, looking again; "it’s a
rooster."
The gobbler flew down and the turkeys followed and the master drove the
gander and his family back to the yard. "You will get your wings
clipped to-morrow," he said, and then from under his arm he released a
big yellow-and-black rooster, which flew to the ground, looked about,
spread his wings and crowed in a way that plainly said: "I am cock of
this walk and king of this yard. Let none dispute my rights."
The drake collected his family and started for the pond, and the gander
and geese followed along behind.
The turkey spread his wings and held his head high as he strutted away
with his family. But he did not impress the new rooster; he was ruler
and he knew it.
"Now the sun will know when to rise," said one hen, "and we shall know
when to awake."
"Yes," said another, "and we have had a narrow escape; it looked for a
while as if our family were to lose its social standing, but now that we
have a new king we can hold up our heads again and look down on the
others, if we have to go to the top of the wood-pile to do it."
The dog laughed to himself as he walked away. "I knew all the time," he
said, "that the new rooster was coming, but I thought it would do them
good to know they were only fitted to care for their own flock."
[Illustration: headpiece to The Pink and Blue Eggs]
*THE PINK AND BLUE EGGS*
"I tell you I saw them with my own eyes," said old White Hen, standing
on one foot with her neck outstretched and her bill wide open. "One was
pink and the other was blue. They were just like any other egg as far
as size, but the color--think of it--pink and blue eggs. Whoever could
have laid them?" Old White Hen looked from one to the other of the
group of hens and chickens as they stood around her.
"Well, I know that I didn’t," said Speckled Hen.
"You needn’t look at me," said Brown Hen. "I lay large white eggs, and
you know it, every one of you. They are the best eggs in the yard, if I
do say it."
"Oh, I would not say that," said White Hen. "You seem to forget that the
largest egg ever seen in this yard was laid by me, and it was a little
on the brown color; white eggs are all well enough, but give me a brown
tone for quality."
"You never laid such a large egg as that but once," replied Brown Hen,
"and everybody thought it was a freak egg, so the least said about it
the better, it seems to me."
"It is plain to understand how you feel about that egg," said White Hen,
"but it does not help us to find out who laid the blue and pink eggs."
"Where did you see them?" asked Speckled Hen.
"On the table, by the window of the farm-house," said old White Hen. "I
flew up on a barrel that stood under the window, and then I stretched my
neck and looked in the window, and there on the table, in a little
basket, I saw those strange-looking eggs."
"Perhaps the master had bought them for some one of us to sit on and
hatch out," said Brown Hen.
"Well, I, for one, refuse to do it," said White Hen. "I think it would
be an insult to put those gaudy things into our nests."
"I am sure I will not hatch them," said Speckled Hen. "I would look
funny hiking around here with a blue chick and a pink chick beside me,
and I a speckled hen. No! I will not mother fancy-colored chicks; the
master can find another hen to do that."
"You do not think for a minute that I would do such a thing, I hope,"
said Brown Hen. "I only mentioned the fact that the master might have
such an idea, but as for mixing up colors, I guess not. My little
yellow darlings shall not be disgraced by a blue and a pink chick
running with them."
"Perhaps White Hen is color-blind," said Speckled Hen. "The eggs she
saw may be white, after all."
"If you doubt my word or my sight go and look for yourselves," said
White Hen, holding her head high. "You will find a blue and a pink egg,
just as I told you."
Off ran Speckled Hen and Brown Hen, followed by many others, and all the
chicks in the yard.
One after another they flew to the top of the barrel and looked in the
window at the eggs White Hen had told them of. It was all too true; the
eggs were blue and pink.
"Peep, peep, peep, peep, we want to see the blue and pink eggs, too,"
cried the chickens. "We never saw any and we want to look at them."
"Oh dear! why did I talk before them?" said Brown Hen. "They will not
be quiet unless they see, and how in the world shall I get them up to
that window?"
"Did it ever occur to you not to give them everything they cry for?"
said White Hen. "Say ’No’ once in a while; it will save you a lot of
trouble."
"I cannot bear to deny the little darlings anything," said Brown Hen,
clucking her little brood and trying to quiet them.
"Well, you better begin now, for this is one of the things you will not
be able to do." said White Hen, strutting over to the dog-house to tell
the story of the blue and pink eggs to Towser.
"Wouldn’t it be just too awful if the master puts those eggs in one of
our nests?" asked White Hen, when she had finished her story.
"Oh--oh!" laughed Towser, "that is a good joke on you; don’t know your
own eggs when you see them."
"Don’t tell me I laid those fancy-colored eggs," said White Hen, looking
around to see if any of her companions were within hearing distance. "I
know I never did."
"But you did," said Towser, laughing again. "I heard the master say to
my little mistress, ’If you want eggs to color for Easter take the ones
that White Hen laid; they are not so large as the others, and I cannot
sell them so well.’"
"Towser, if you will never mention what you have just told me I will
tell you where I saw a great big bone this morning," said White Hen. "I
was saving it for myself. I like to pick at one once in a while, but
you shall have it if you promise to keep secret what you just told me."
Towser promised, and White Hen showed where it was hidden.
A few days after Brown Hen said: "I wonder when master is going to bring
out those fancy eggs. If he leaves them in the house much longer no one
will be able to hatch them."
"Oh! I forgot to tell you that those eggs were not real eggs, after
all," said White Hen, "but only Easter eggs for the master’s little girl
to play with, so we had all our worry for nothing. Towser told me, but
don’t say a word to him, for I did not let on that we were worried and
didn’t know they were only make-believe eggs; he thinks he is so wise,
you know, it would never do to let him know how we were fooled."
[Illustration: headpiece to Why the Morning-glory Sleeps]
*WHY THE MORNING-GLORY SLEEPS*
One day the flowers got into a very angry discussion over the sun, of
whom they were very fond.
"Surely you all must know that he loves me best," said the rose. "He
shines upon me and makes me sweeter than any of you, and he gives me the
colors that are most admired by man."
"I do not see how you can say that," said the dahlia. "You may give
forth more fragrance than I can, but you cannot think for a second that
you are more beautiful. Why, my colors are richer than yours and last
much longer! The sun certainly loves me the best."
The modest lily looked at the dahlia and said in a low, sweet voice, "I
do not wish to be bold, but I feel that the sun loves me and that I
should let you know that he gives to me more fragrance than to any of
you."
"Oh, oh! Hear lily!" said the others in chorus. "She thinks the king of
day loves her best."
The lily hung her head and said no more, for the other flowers quite
frightened her with their taunts.
"How can any of you think you are the best beloved of the sun?" said
goldenglow. "When you behold my glowing color which the sun bestows on
me, do any of you look so much like him as I do? No, indeed; he loves me
best."
The hollyhock looked down on the others with pitying glances. "It is
plain to be seen that you have never noticed that the sun shines on me
with more warmth than on you, and now I must tell you he loves me best
and gives me the tenderest of his smiles. See how tall I am and how
gorgeous are my colors. He loves me best."
"When it comes to sweetness, I am sure you have forgotten me," said the
honeysuckle. "Why, the king of day loves me best, you may be sure! He
makes me give forth more sweetness than any of you."
"You may be very sweet," said the pansy, "but surely you know that my
pet name is heart’s-ease and that the sun loves me best. To none of you
does he give such velvet beauty as to me. I am nearest his heart and
his best beloved."
The morning-glory listened to all this with envy in her heart. She did
not give forth sweetness, as many of the others, neither did she possess
the beauty of the rose or the pansy.
"If only I could get him to notice me," she thought. "I am dainty and
frail, and I am sure he would admire me if only he could behold me; but
the others are always here and in such glowing colors that poor little
me is overshadowed by their beauty."
All day morning-glory thought of the sun and wondered how she could
attract his attention to herself, and at night she smiled, for she had
thought of a plan. She would get up early in the morning and greet him
before the other flowers were awake.
She went to bed early that night so that she might not oversleep in the
morning, and when the first streak of dawn showed in the sky
morning-glory opened her eyes and shook out her delicate folds. The dew
was on her and she turned her face toward the sun.
As soon as she peeped into the garden the sun beheld her. "How dainty
and lovely you are!" he said. "I have never noticed before the beauty
of your colors, morning-glory," and he let his warm glances fall and
linger upon her.
The sunflower all this time was watching with jealous eyes, for she was
the one who had always welcomed the sun, and this morning he seemed to
have entirely forgotten her.
Still sunflower kept her gaze upon them and wondered what she could do
to win back her king from the delicate little morning-glory.
But as she looked she saw the morning-glory sway and nod her head. "She
is going to sleep," said the sunflower; "his warm breath makes her
drowsy, or else she was up so early that she cannot keep awake."
While the sunflower watched, sure enough the morning-glory nodded and
closed her eyes. She was fast asleep, and the fickle sun, seeing that
she no longer looked upon him, looked away and beheld the sunflower
looking toward him with longing eyes.
"Good morning, King," she said, as she caught his eye, and she was wise
enough not to let him know she had seen him before. So the sun smiled
and turned his face upon them all, and the sunflower kept to herself
what she had seen, knowing full well that she was the one who knew best
how to keep his first and last glances.
A little later one of the flowers called out: "Look at morning-glory;
she is still sleeping. Let us tell her it is time to awaken."
"Morning-glory! morning-glory!" they called, but she did not answer.
She was sound asleep.
"That is strange," said the rose. "I wonder if she has gone to sleep
never to awake. I have heard of such things happening."
After two or three mornings the other flowers ceased to notice
morning-glory, for they thought she had ceased to be one of them, but
the wise sunflower kept her own counsel. She knew that morning-glory
had to sleep all day in order that she might not miss the sun; but, as I
told you, she was wise enough not to complain, and she kept his love for
her by so doing.
[Illustration: headpiece to Dorothy and the Portrait]
*DOROTHY AND THE PORTRAIT*
Dorothy was very fond of her grandmother and grandfather, and liked to
visit them, but there were no little girls to play with, and sometimes
she was lonely for some one her own age. She would wander about the
house looking for the queer things that grandmothers always have in
their homes. The hall clock interested Dorothy very much. It stood on
the landing at the top of the stairs, and she used to sit and listen to
its queer tick-tock and watch the hands, which moved with little nervous
jumps. Then there were on its face the stars and the moon and the sun,
and they all were very wonderful to Dorothy. One day she went into the
big parlor, where there were pictures of her grandfather and
grandmother, and her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, also.
Dorothy thought the "greats" looked very sedate, and she felt sure they
must have been very old to have been the parents of her grandfather.
But the picture that interested her the most was a large painting of
three children, one a little girl about her own age, and one other
older, and a boy, who wore queer-looking trousers, cut off below the
knee. His suit was of black velvet, and he wore white stockings and
black shoes. The little girls were dressed in white, and their dresses
had short sleeves and low necks. The older girl had black hair, but the
one that Dorothy thought was her age had long, golden curls like hers,
only the girl in the picture wore her hair parted, and the curls hung
all about her face.
Dorothy climbed into a big chair and sat looking at them. "I wish they
could play with me," she thought, and she smiled at the little
golden-haired girl. And then, wonderful to tell, the girl in the
picture smiled at Dorothy.
"Oh! are you alive?" asked Dorothy.
"Of course I am," the little girl replied. "I will come down, if you
would like to have me, and visit with you."
"Oh, I should be so glad to have you!" Dorothy answered.
Then the boy stepped to the edge of the frame, and from there to the top
of a big chair which stood under the picture, and stood in the chair
seat. He held out his hand to the little girls and helped them to the
floor in the most courtly manner. Dorothy got out of her chair and
asked them to be seated, and the boy placed chairs for them beside her.
"What is your name?" asked the golden-haired girl, for she was the only
one who spoke.
"That was my name," she said, when Dorothy told her. "I lived in this
house," she continued, "and we used to have such good times. This is my
sister and my brother." The little girl and boy smiled, but they let
their sister do all the talking. "We used to roast chestnuts in the
fireplace," she said, "and once we had a party in this room, and played
all sorts of games."
Dorothy could not imagine that quiet room filled with children.
"Do you remember how we frightened poor old Uncle Zack in this room?"
she said to her brother and sister, and then they all laughed.
"Do tell me about it," said Dorothy.
"These glass doors by the fireplace did not have curtains in our day,"
said the little girl, "and there were shells and other things from the
ocean in one cupboard, and in the other there were a sword and a helmet
and a pair of gauntlets. My brother wrapped a sheet around him and put
on the helmet and the gauntlets, and, taking the sword in his hand, he
climbed into the cupboard and sat down. We girls closed the doors and
hid behind the sofa. Uncle Zack came in to fix the fire, and my brother
beckoned to him. Poor Zack dropped the wood he was carrying and fell on
his knees, trembling with fright. The door was not fastened and my
brother pushed it open and pointed the sword at poor Uncle Zack.
"’Don’ hurt a po’ ol’ nigger,’ said Zack, very faintly. ’I ’ain’ don’
noffin’, ’deed I ’ain’.’
"’You told about the jam the children ate,’ said my brother, in a deep
voice, ’and you know you drank the last drop of rum Mammy Sue had for
her rheumatism, and for this you must be punished,’ and he brought the
sword down on the floor of the cupboard with a bang.
"Poor Uncle Zack fell on his face with fright. This was too much for my
sister and me, and we laughed out.
"You never saw any one change so quickly as Uncle Zack. He jumped up
and we ran, but my brother had to get out of his disguise, and Uncle
Zack caught him. He agreed not to tell our father if we did not tell
about his fright, and so we escaped being punished."
"Tell me more about your life in this old house," said Dorothy, when the
little girl finished her story. But just then the picture of Dorothy’s
great-grandmother moved and out she stepped from her frame. She walked
with a very stately air toward the children and put her hand on the
shoulder of the little girl who had been telling the story, and said:
"You better go back to your frame now."
"Oh dear!" said the little girl. "I did so dislike being grown up, and
I had forgotten all about it, when my grown-up self reminds me. That is
the trouble when you are in the room with your grown-up picture," she
told Dorothy. "You see, I had to be so sedate after I married that I
never even dared to think of my girlhood, but you come in here again
some day and I will tell you more about the good times we had."
The boy mounted the chair first and helped his sisters back into the
frame. Dorothy looked for her great-grandmother, but she, too, was back
in her frame, looking as sedate as ever. The next day Dorothy asked her
grandmother who the children were in the big picture.
"This one," she said, pointing to the little golden-haired girl, "was
your great-grandmother; you were named for her; and the other little
girl and boy were your grandfather’s aunt and uncle. They were your
great-great-aunt and uncle."
Dorothy did not quite understand the "great-great" part of it, but she
was glad to know that her stately-looking great-grandmother had once
been a little girl like her, and some day, when the great-grandmother’s
picture is not looking, she expects to hear more about the fun the
children had in the days long ago.
[Illustration: headpiece to Mistress Pussy’s Mistake]
*MISTRESS PUSSY’S MISTAKE*
A very kind gentleman, who lived in a big house which was in the midst
of a beautiful park, had a handsome cat of which he was very fond. While
he felt sure Pussy was fond of him, he knew very well she would hurt the
birds, so he put a pretty ribbon around Pussy’s neck, and on it a little
silver bell which tinkled whenever she moved and this warned the birds
that she was near.
Pussy resented this, but pretended she did not care. One day a thrush
was singing very sweetly on the bough of a tree which overhung a small
lake. Pussy walked along under the tree, and, looking up at the thrush,
said: "Madam Thrush, you have a most beautiful voice, and you are a very
handsome bird. I do wish I were nearer to you, for I am not so young as
I was once, and I cannot hear so well."
The thrush trilled a laugh at Pussy, and said: "Yes, Miss Puss, I can
well believe you wish me nearer, but not to see or hear me better, but
that you might grasp me."
Pussy pretended not to hear the last remark, but said: "My beautiful
Thrush, will you not come down where I can hear you better? I cannot
get about as nimbly as I used to when I was young, or I would go to
you."
"I cannot sing so well on the ground," replied the thrush. "You can
come up here, even if you are not so spry as you were. But tell me, do
you not find the bell you wear very trying to your nerves?"
"Oh no," answered sly Pussy. "It is so pretty that I’m glad to wear it,
and my master thinks I am so handsome that he likes to see me dressed
well. And then he can always find me when he hears the bell. That is
why I wear it."
"I understand," answered the thrush, "and we birds are always glad to
hear it, too." And she trilled another laugh at Pussy and added, "You
are certainly a very handsome creature, Miss Puss."
Pussy all this time had very slowly climbed the tree, for she wanted the
thrush to think she was old and slow, but the bird had her bright eyes
upon her. When Pussy reached the branch the thrush was on she stopped
and seated herself.
"Now, my pretty little friend, do sing to me your loudest song."
She hoped it would be loud enough to drown the tinkle of the bell. The
thrush began and was soon singing very sweetly. Pussy took a very
cautious step and then remained quiet. The thrush stopped singing and
spread her wings.
"Oh, do not stop!" said Puss. "Your song was so soothing I was in a
doze; do sing again." And she moved a little closer.
The thrush took a step nearer to the end of the bough and said: "I am
glad you like my voice. I will sing again if it pleases you so much."
She began her song, but she kept her eyes on Puss, and as Puss drew
nearer she moved closer to the end of the swinging bough.
She had reached a very high note when Puss gave a spring, but the thrush
was too quick; she flew out of Pussy’s reach, and splash went Pussy into
the lake, for she had not noticed that the thrush was moving to the end
of the bough, so intent was she on the thought of catching her.
Poor Pussy was very wet when she scrambled to the bank of the lake, and
the birds were chirping and making a great noise.
"How did you like your bath, Miss Puss?" the thrush called to her. "You
should never lay traps for others, for often you fall into them
yourself."
[Illustration: headpiece to Kid]
*KID*
Kid was one of those little boys who seemed to have grown up on the
streets of the big city where he lived.
He never remembered a mother or a father, and no one ever took care of
him. His first remembrance was of an old woman who gave him a crust of
bread, and he slept in the corner of her room. One day they carried her
away, and since then Kid had slept in a doorway or an alley.
By selling papers he managed to get enough to eat, and if he did not
have the money he stole to satisfy his hunger.
He was often cold and hungry, but he saw many other children that were
in the same condition, and he did not suppose that any one ever had
enough to eat or a warm place to sleep every night.
Kid went in to the Salvation Army meetings, when they held them in his
neighborhood, because it was a place where the wind did not blow, and
while there he heard them sing and talk about Some One who loved
everybody and would help you if only you would ask Him. Kid was never
able to find out just where this Person lived, and, therefore, he could
not ask for help.
One day Kid saw a lady who was too well dressed to belong in his part of
the city, and he followed her, thinking that she might have a
pocket-book he could take. The opportunity did not offer itself,
however, and before Kid realized it he was in a part of the city he had
never seen before.
The buildings were tall and the streets much cleaner than where he
lived. Kid walked along, looking in windows of the stores, when he
noticed a lady standing beside him with a jeweled watch hanging from her
belt.
He had never seen anything so beautiful or so easy to take, and he
waited for a few more people to gather around the window, and then he
|
and discretion in concluding the negotiations with England
upon the question of the peace with the Basutos and then again in
submitting to the boundary delimitations, it being contended even yet
that the Orange Free State had the weightier arguments in its favour in
both instances.
The people of that Republic proved however to be the ultimate gainers in
those adjustments; they did not miss the more solid advantages attending
the discovery of the diamond-fields. Believed of the grave
responsibility involved in governing a turbulent population of foreign
diggers, the geographical position of the Kimberley fields secured to
the Free State farmers an almost entire monopoly in the supply of
products; trade also flourished apace, all tending to enrich the
inhabitants and the State revenue as well.
But the Orange Free State derived a permanent advantage, quite unique
and more than compensating the apparent set-back suffered by the loss of
the diamond-field territory and by British intervention in the Basuto
war matter, in that the method of those procedures saddled England with
the responsibility of guaranteeing the internal safety of the State from
those hitherto unprotected borders "altogether at her own cost." The
Keate award completed the British cordon around the Free State,
excepting only in regard to the Transvaal frontier. No need thenceforth
for costly military provisions for the protection of the State--it was,
as it were, walled and fenced in at British expense, and the State
revenue was thus for ever relieved of a very heavy item of expenditure,
which could be devoted to the increase of the national wealth instead--a
peaceful security accompanied with an intrinsic gain constituting a
veritable and permanent heirloom for the people of that State.
It is notable that the position of the Orange Free State, without any
other access to the sea-board than from colonial ports, made its status
and welfare entirely dependent upon the friendly and loyal good faith of
England. Up to the present unhappy war that State enjoyed unaltered the
best relations without being ever subjected to even a trace of chicanery
from the part of Great Britain.
By what illusion, it may well be asked, could that hitherto friendly
people have been deluded to risk all in a disloyal breach with England
by joining the Transvaal in a "Bond" issue against her best friend?
Towards the Transvaal also had England proved her earnest desire to
maintain an intercourse on the basis of sincere amity, desirous only of
reciprocity, which indeed could be expected in willing return, seeing
that England took upon her own shoulders to provide for the protection
and welfare of the entire area of South Africa by sea and land, whilst
both Republics freely participated in all the great benefits so derived.
These considerations should substantially disprove the wicked aspersion
lately made that British policy aimed at the subversion of republican
autonomy in those two States. All that Great Britain needed and
confidently expected in return for her goodwill was friendly adhesion,
and a willing recognition of her paramountcy in matters affecting the
common weal of South Africa as a whole, and also such reciprocity and
mutual concern in the welfare of all as consistently comport with common
interests. How fell and malignant the "influence" which operated a
treacherous ingratitude and hostility instead!
TRANSVAAL HISTORY--SUZERAINTY
The references made to the history of the Transvaal so far reach up to
the rehabilitation of its independence and the convention of 1881. Some
of the conditions of that treaty, especially the subordinate position
imposed by the suzerainty clause, were found to be repugnant to the
burghers. Delegates were therefore commissioned to proceed to England in
order to get the treaty so altered as to place the State into the status
provided by the Sand River convention, which conceded absolute
independence. Mr. Jorrison, a violent anti-English Hollander, was the
chief adviser of the members of that delegation.
To that the English Ministry could not assent, but sought to meet the
wishes of the people by agreeing to certain modifications of the
convention of 1881. This was effected with the treaty of 1884. The
delegates had specially urged the renunciation of the suzerainty claim,
but that claim appears not to have been abandoned, to judge from the
absence of such mention in the novated treaty. Had its renunciation been
agreed to, as has been since averred, it is quite certain that the
delegates would not have been content without the mention in most
distinct terms of that, to them, so important point. It may therefore be
assumed as a fact that the negotiations did not result in an active
suspension of the relations as set forth in the convention of 1881, and
that the Transvaal continued in a status of subordinacy to England, but
only with a wider range in regard to conditions of autonomy. To most lay
minds it therefore appears perfectly clear that the Transvaal delegates
had well understood and accepted, and so had also their Government, that
the convention of 1884 was _de facto_ a renewal of that of 1881, with
the only difference that it provided an enlarged exercise of autonomy,
but without in the least abrogating the principles of respective
relations, which were left intact, or at least latent.
It has been averred and a strong point made in the theory of repudiating
suzerainty or over-lordship that Lord Kimberley had given the assurance
that the right of Transvaal autonomy and independence was meant to equal
that of the Orange Free State. This need not be contested, as that
Minister obviously relied upon a similar observance of staunch adhesion
towards England which that State had shown during a period of thirty
years previous; the fact that the Transvaal was quite differently
situated as to adjoining territory imposed the necessity, if only as a
matter of form, to preserve the written conditions of Transvaal
vassalage.
Lord Kimberley, in 1889, intimated the readiness of his Government to
afford advisory and other co-operation with the Transvaal Government in
order to cope with the new element of foreign immigration, resulting
from the discovery of the rich gold-fields, and to provide appropriate
relations with a new floating population, without materially altering
the status of Transvaal authority, or the methods of government then in
practice.
The Transvaal Government, however, preferred to ignore that loyal offer,
and to be guided by Bond principles instead. That circumstance affords
another proof that England did not then see the necessity, as has
subsequently been the case, of strengthening her position against Bond
aggression by imposing a demand of general franchise for Uitlanders.
One aspect of the prolonged controversy _re_ suzerainty forced upon
England would be to denote a lack of honour, which is not of unfrequent
occurrence when one party to a contract seeks by cavil and legal quibble
to evade compliance with some of its conditions, simply because the
written terms appear to afford scope for doing so. But the principal
reason of the Transvaal contention proceeded from the project of gaining
over some strong foreign ally who would see an obstacle, if not
scruples, in joining common cause whilst England's claim of
over-lordship remained unshaken. But for that consideration the
Transvaal Government inwardly viewed the whole of the treaties as waste
paper, since it was not only intended to violate them all, but also to
bring about, at an opportune moment, a hostile severance from England.
In the meantime, the academic squabble was to serve as a decoy to hide
Transvaal identification with any such sinister objects, and to divert
attention and suspicion.
TRANSVAAL HISTORY--TREATMENT OF UITLANDERS--FRANCHISE
To resume the cursory history of the Transvaal. Mr. Burger, during his
Presidency in the early seventies, went to Europe with the mission of
attracting capital to the development and exploitation of gold, etc.,
then already authentically discovered; also, to provide for the building
of a railway connecting with Delagoa Bay. The Transvaal Boers were at
that time exceedingly poor, and without a sufficient revenue for
properly maintaining the administration. Beyond creating a lively
interest, his success was confined to an agreement with a company in
Holland for building a section of that railroad, which, however, fell
through, because the Transvaal proved ultimately unable to furnish its
quota of the necessary funds. The present President fared better. A
Dutch company styled "The Nederlandsch Zuid Afrikaansche Spoorweg
Maatschappy," abbreviated "Z.A.S.M.," undertook the work and completed
it in 1887, from the Portuguese border to Pretoria. The line from
Pretoria to the Natal border was soon after built, as also several
extensions around the Wit-waters Rand, and that from Pretoria to
Pietersburg. The section connecting Delagoa Bay as far as the Transvaal
border had previously been completed by McMurdo, and is the subject of
the present Berne arbitration.[2]
The contract conferred to the Dutch Company a monopoly, and most
advantageous financial terms as well. By that time great strides had
been made in the development of the Transvaal gold-fields, especially at
the Wit-waters Rand (Johannesburg); and immigration on a large scale
from all parts of the world had set in, and was constantly increasing
with vast amounts of investments in mercantile and other enterprises, as
well as in mining industries. At first, equitable laws governed burghers
and Uitlanders alike, administered by an independent judiciary. All
desirable security was afforded for person and property, with confidence
in the safety of investments, and great general prosperity kept pace
with ever-increasing activities and enterprise.
It was a great satisfaction to Uitlanders that the peace of 1881, and
the reinstatement of Transvaal independence, had restored harmony
between Boer and English, and that a policy was being followed to
preclude friction between the respective Governments. Those facts
largely stimulated investments and enhanced confidence. By 1887 the
alien population had already exceeded 100,000, and the capital
investments £200,000,000 sterling, and the desire so ardently
entertained by the people of the land, for twenty years back, was
gratified at last. The burghers shared in the prosperity to a very large
degree, and in lieu of former poverty, competence and wealth became the
rule, and many of them became exceedingly rich. It was not unusual to
hear Boers expressing undisguised gratitude, not merely for the natural
gold deposits, but specially also that people had come to prospect and
to invest capital, without which the wealth of the land would have
remained unexploited and lain fallow. Harmony and cordiality were the
proper outcome between foreigners and Boers. The influx of capital and
of immigrants continued to increase, but not so the happy conditions.
These were gradually getting marred by a spirit of variance, no one
seemed to know how. The study of this paper will reveal it. The variance
between Boers and Uitlanders began to be specially discernible from 1887
and had been increasing like a blight ever since. This was noticeably
coincident with the numerous arrivals of educated Hollanders employed
for the railways and the Government administration.
In the earlier period of the Transvaal Republic, one year's residence
was first held sufficient for acquiring full franchise or burgher rights
and voting qualifications. The condition was successively raised to two,
three, and five years; but in 1890 laws were passed which required
fourteen years' probation, with conditions which virtually brought the
term to twenty-one years, and even then left the acquisition of full
franchise to the caprice of field-cornets and higher officials.
Englishmen and their descendants were at one time totally and for ever
excluded and disqualified just merely because of their nationality
whilst Hollanders were admitted in very large numbers without having to
pass any probation at all or only comparatively short terms. The English
language became a target for hostility and as good as proscribed;
impracticable and ludicrous attempts even were made to exclude its use
in Johannesburg, where hardly any Uitlander understood Dutch, whilst
every Boer official was well versed in English: market and auction sales
were to be conducted only in Dutch; bills of fare at hotels and
restaurants were also to be in full-fledged Dutch only--and all this, it
must be remembered, some years before the Jameson incursion took place.
The judiciary, which, according to the "Grondwet" (Constitution), was
the highest legal authority, was by one stroke of enactment rendered
subservient and subordinate to the First Volksraad. The then Chief
Justice (Kotzee) was ignominiously deposed for honourably contending
against the grave departure from right and justice in subverting the
sacred prerogative due to the highest tribunal, which Boer and Uitlander
alike relied upon for independent justice.
A new system of education was next introduced which admitted only High
Dutch as the medium of instruction in public schools. As only Hollander
children could benefit by such tuition, and whereas those of other
immigrants could not understand that language, the effect was that
parents of English and other nationalities had to combine in
establishing private schools or else to employ private teachers at their
own expense--whilst paying, in the way of taxation, for Hollander public
schools as well. That oppressive system was subsequently somewhat
modified in a manner which admitted the English language as a medium for
a portion of the school hours, the proportion so accorded being larger
in Johannesburg and other such wholly English-speaking centres than in
other parts of the State; but the amelioration did not take place until
after much irritation and expense had been occasioned, nor did it meet
the case of hardship more than half-way. I may here place the remark
that the public educational department is conducted without stint of
expenditure in providing from Holland the amplest and best school
equipments and highly salaried Dutch professors and teachers.
Irritating class legislation began to be systematically resorted to, to
the prejudice of Uitlanders (the majority of whom, it will be borne in
mind, were English), which painfully pointed to a fixed determination on
the part of the Boers to lord it over them as a totally inferior class,
allowing them no representation, and to treat them, in fact, just as a
conquered people placed under tribute and proper only to be dominated
and exploited.
Boers could walk or ride about armed to the teeth, whilst Uitlanders
were forbidden to possess arms under penalty of confiscation and other
punishments (except sporting-guns under special permit). The like
irritations became rampant by 1890 already.
The alien population were at first too much occupied with their
prosperous vocations to combine in the way of protesting against such
prevailing usage. The Press was, however, eventually employed, and the
Government was approached with respectful petitions praying for redress
of the most glaring causes of discontent; but those were invariably
either disdainfully rejected or ignored, or, if some matter was
relieved, other more exasperating enactments were defiantly substituted.
They were cynically told that they had come to their (the Boer's)
country unasked, and were at liberty, and in fact invited, to leave it
if the laws did not please them. This was said, well knowing that to
leave would involve too great sacrifices of homes and investments. The
Uitlanders could not, however, be brought to the belief that the
Government of a conscientious people could persist in dealing with them
as if a previous design had existed--first to inveigle them and their
capital into their midst, with the object of goading and despoiling them
afterwards. The course of petitioning and respectful remonstrances was
therefore persevered in, but all to no purpose. Indignation and
resentment were the natural result of those failures. There appeared no
alternative but to submit or else to abandon all and leave the country.
It is true that numerous Uitlanders acquired competences, and some were
amassing fortunes, but such prizes were comparatively few. The majority
just managed, with varying success, to reap a reasonable return for
their outlays and energies, or only to live more or less comfortably.
The fashion of luxurious and unthrifty living, so prevalent among the
"_nouveaux riches_" and the section who vied with them, impressed the
Boers with the notion that all were getting rich, and that soon there
would be nothing left for them in the race. In their Hollander Press
they were reminded that the gold, in reality belonging to them, was
rapidly being exhausted, and the wealth appropriated by aliens, whose
hewers of wood and drawers of water they would finally become. All this
galled them to the heart, and the Government readily lent itself to
proceedings intended to balance conditions in favour of their burghers,
as the process was described. I will adduce a few instances. As is well
known, it is only burghers and some privileged Hollanders who are
employed in Government service, from President down to policeman. There
are very few exceptions to this rule, which also applies to the
nominations of jurymen, who are well paid too. The salaries of all,
especially in the higher grades, had been largely augmented; the
President receiving £8,000 per year, and so on downwards.
For Government supplies and public works the tenders of burghers only,
and perhaps of some privileged persons, are accepted. In many instances
the tenderers are without any pretence of ability for the performance of
the contract, but are nevertheless accepted, performing only a _sub rosa
rôle_. One such instance occurred some years ago when a burgher who did
not possess £100--a simple farmer and a kind of "slim"
speculator--received by Volksraad vote the contract for building a
certain railway.[3] The price included a very large margin to be
distributed in places of interest--as douceurs of £1,000 to £5,000 each,
and £10,000 for the _pro forma_ contractor and his Volksraad
confederates; all those sums were paid out by the firm for whom the
contract was actually taken up.
Similarly in contracts for road making, repairing, and making streets,
etc., etc. On one occasion a rather highly placed official obtained a
contract for repairing certain streets in Pretoria for £60,000. The work
being worth £20,000 at most, the difference went to be shared by the
several official participants.
One of the first instances of glaring peculation occurred about fifteen
years ago in relation with the Selati railway contract obtained by Baron
Oppenheim.[4] The procedure was publicly stigmatized as bribery. It had
transpired that nearly all the Volksraad's members had received gifts in
cash and values ranging each from £50 to £1,000 prior to voting the
contract, but what was paid after voting did not become public at the
time of exposure.
The acceptance of those gifts was ultimately admitted, in the face of
evidence adduced in a certain law case; denial became, in fact,
impossible. The plea of exoneration was that those gifts had been freely
accepted without pledging the vote. The President publicly exculpated
the honourable members, expressing his conviction that none of them
could have meant to prejudice the State in their votes for the contract;
and as there had been no pledge on their part, the donor had actually
incurred the risk of missing his object. From that time the practice of
obtaining and selling concessions or of sinecures and other lucrative
advantages grew quite into a trade; and receiving douceurs became a
hankering passion from highest to lowest, but happily with not a few
exceptions where the official's honour was above being priced.
There was nothing shocking in all this venality to the bulk of the
Johannesburg speculator class and others of that category. The rest
assessed official morality at a depreciated value, but hoped the
blemishes might be purged out with other and graver causes for
discontent, if Uitlanders, were only granted some effective
representation in public matters. That appeared to be the only
constitutional remedy. But this continued to be resentfully refused,
even in matters which partook of purely domestic interest, such as
education, municipal privileges, etc. The latter were opposed upon the
specious argument that such extended rights would constitute an
_imperium in imperio,_ and thus a condition incompatible with the safety
and the conservation of complete control.
In the usual intercourse with burghers and officials a great deal of
exasperating and even humiliating experiences had often to be endured,
Uitlanders being treated as an inferior class, with scarcely veiled and
often with arrogant assumption of superiority.
I witnessed a field cornet enjoying free and courteous hospitality at a
Uitlander's house, while being entertained by his host and others in the
vernacular Dutch, peremptorily object to the conversation in English in
which the lady of the house happened to be engaged with another guest at
the further end of the table. His remark was to the effect "that he
could not tolerate English being spoken within his hearing"; this was in
about 1888.
No wonder that under such conditions and ungenial usage Englishmen and
other Uitlanders were put in a resentful mood, and many of them
bethought themselves of methods other than constitutional to improve
their position.
Identification was resorted to with the Imperial League, a political
organization called into being in the Cape Colony to stem Boer
assertiveness there and to restrain Bond aspirations. It was also
seriously mooted to obtain the good offices of Great Britain as an
influence for intervention and remonstrance.
It was not that the Transvaal Government was unaware of its duty and
responsibility to remove causes which produced discontent and resentment
among by far the larger section of the people under its rule. It seemed
rather that the Uitlanders were provoked with systematic intention.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 2: The Berne award has, as is well known, since been given.]
[Footnote 3: The Ermelo-Machadodorp branch.]
[Footnote 4: These very details were since made public in the Belgian
Law courts in the recent _cause célèbre_ of "The Government of the South
African Republic _versus_ Baron Oppenheim."]
MONSTER PETITION--JAMESON INCURSION--ARMAMENTS
It was at this stage in May, 1894, that a monster petition with some
25,000 signatures was presented to the Volksraad, setting forth the
entire position, and praying for a commission to be appointed to examine
the merits of the Uitlander complaints, and to frame a programme of
reforms, the interests of the mining community needing such in a most
urgent degree, not only for the sake of its own prosperity, but for the
welfare of the entire State. A commission was indeed appointed, who
reported in favour of the petitioners, and suggested a series of
reforms; but the final Volksraad vote resulted in an angry rejection of
the petition and denunciation of its organizers.
As on the occasion of previous memorials, some few abuses were
redressed, but those benefits were made worse than nugatory by
enactments in other directions of a still more galling nature. The
petitioners found themselves snubbed and in the position of humiliating
defeat.
Treatment of Coloured British Subjects
A glaring instance of oppression practised by the Transvaal Government
was its cruel treatment of coloured British subjects who had been
admitted into the State. Among these figured some thousands of educated
Asiatic traders, including numerous cultured Indian and Parsee merchants
with large stakes in the State and well-appointed residences, people
whose very religion exacted the most scrupulous cleanliness and who had
all proved themselves obedient and law-abiding. These were classed under
one rubric with the vastly inferior coolie labourer, with Kaffirs and
Hottentots, and actually compelled to abandon their stores and
residences to reside in one common ghetto upon the outskirts of the
towns, a measure which entailed great losses apart from the gratuitous
humiliation--to many it involved ruin and in fact meant their expulsion.
It will be remembered that some years before already the English
Government had felt it incumbent to advocate the cause of coloured
British subjects and to remonstrate against their ill-usage. The matter
was ultimately submitted to arbitration at Bloemfontein, under the
umpireship of Sir Henry de Villiers, whose award, contrary to
expectation, was adverse to the coloured people. Here was indeed a
unique occasion for the Transvaal Government to exercise geniality upon
a point sorely felt by the British Government; but the very contrary
course was adopted under the ægis of that notorious award, and upon the
untenable plea that sanitation and regard to public health necessitated
that measure of segregation.
Despite the fact that no royalty was yet exacted upon the gold output,
probably to please French, American, and German investors, there seemed
to exist a veiled hostility against the representatives of mining
capitalists, as if the Government regretted to have allowed the
exploitation of the mines to fall into private hands and would welcome
an opportunity to take them under State control altogether.
The Uitlander Press vented public sentiment and denounced the Government
attitude in unmistakable terms; there were besides some angry public
demonstrations. It was an alarming time of impending crisis, rife with
signs of open revolt; the Government looking calmly on awaiting
developments. It was then that the President's since famous saying was
pronounced, viz., "that the tortoise must first be allowed to put out
its head before it could be struck off, and that he was ready for any
emergency."
The situation had a truly anomalous aspect. More discoveries of gold and
even of diamonds followed apace, and the scope for mining, commercial
and industrial enterprises expanded to an incalculable magnitude. All
that was needed was a stable and good Government to encourage the
needful investments. A most tantalizing picture indeed, based upon
undeniably well-grounded facts.
As it was, the situation was one of alarm for capital already
invested--a stake then of over 300 millions sterling in a country where
more than half of the population were in almost open revolt against a
Government commanding very large repressive forces, and resolved to
maintain its stand.
British intervention appeared to be the only means of salvation to
restore security, and to give a fillip to the brilliant prospects of the
country, for the good of the burgher estate as well as for the sake of
Uitlanders.
As the Government continued deaf and obdurate to representations, other
means were sought for. No wonder the Uitlanders longed for a change,
not by any means with the object of altering the style of Republican
status, but to get the Augean stable of misgovernment cleansed, to
escape oppressive and rapacious Boer domination.
The farcical failure of Dr. Jameson was the outcome of those endeavours.
The unspeakable cowardice of his Johannesburg confederates was the chief
feature of that puny attempt. Laurels, like those gained by Lord
Peterborough, Warren Hastings, or Lord Clive, were not decreed to that
ill-advised emulator.
Nothing could have been more propitious than that very Jameson incursion
to fan race hatred and to advance the projects of the Afrikaner
Bond--"Afrika voor de Afrikaners," for, whilst no one acquainted with
the facts can for a moment doubt the guilt of the Transvaal Government
for having systematically provoked that attempt at revolution, "Bond"
propaganda and paid journalism had a rare chance to set up the theory
that annexation on behalf of Great Britain had been foully planned--the
Prince of Wales even being an abettor of the attempted _coup d'état_
purely to gratify the lust of greed for the gold and diamonds of the
poor innocent Boers. No terms were too vituperative to denounce the
enormity. Millions of honest persons all over the world were
deluded--there was a bitter cry of almost universal indignation. The
Boer Government posed as innocent; the designs of the Afrikaner Bond
were not even suspected--its ranks, in sympathy with those delusions
sped on filling up faster than ever, and the father of lies was scoring
another very sensible triumph.
In lieu of reforms, Bond projects and armaments were secretly pursued
with redoubled vigour towards the climax which should install
Afrikanerdom supreme in South Africa, financially as well as
politically.
BLOEMFONTEIN FRANCHISE CONFERENCE--BOER ULTIMATUM
Capitalists had already begun to feel nervous about the final security
of their investments; operations and credit became restricted, fresh
projects were abandoned and a persistent withdrawal of capital set in.
Trade and prosperity were progressively waning, accompanied with still
more ominous portents for the Uitlanders' future. It all meant a very
extensive weeding out of investments under enormous losses, except such
as stood in relation with dividend-paying mines. England, though
apparently apathetic and inactive, was not inattentive to the situation.
Whoever had a stake, whether in South Africa or abroad, looked to Great
Britain as the Power upon whom the duty devolved to provide a peaceable
remedy. The suzerainty controversy was then followed by other questions
of diplomatic difference, among which that of the franchise reform.
Upon this matter English intervention took an insistent form. It clearly
turned all upon that--and once it were satisfactorily arranged, the
amicable solution of other questions might in turn be expected to
follow. As to suzerainty, that claim appeared relegated to remain in
abeyance. A conference was convened at Bloemfontein early in June, 1899,
for the discussion of those topics between the Colonial Governor, Sir
Alfred Milner, and the Presidents of the two Republics. The outcome was
a final demand for the right of representation of the Uitlander
interests in the legislative bodies of the Transvaal, amounting to
one-fifth of the total aggregate of members, the voting qualifications
to consist in the usual reasonable conditions and a residence in the
State of five years, operating retrospectively.
We may here consider whether such a demand contained any real feature of
unfairness to warrant refusal.
Three-fifths of the entire white Transvaal population were Uitlanders,
the majority of them English. They own four-fifths of the total wealth
invested in the State. About half of them have been domiciled, with
house and other fixed property, for periods of from five to ten years
and more.
The preponderance is not only in numbers and wealth, but also in
intelligence and in contributing at least four-fifths of the total State
revenues.
Is it right or prudent to exclude such interests and such a majority
from legislative representation?
Could a minority of one-fifth, that is to say, twelve Uitlander members
against forty-eight Boer members, be said to constitute a menace to the
status or to the conservative interests of State?
Do Uitlanders not deserve equal recognition with the burghers in respect
to intrinsic interest in the land, seeing that the former supplied all
the skill and the capital to explore and exploit the mine wealth, all at
their risk, and without which it would all have remained hidden and the
country continued fallow and poor?
Though one-fifth would be so small a minority, it would at least have
afforded the constitutional method of declaring the wishes of
Uitlanders, and have done away with the disquieting and less effective
practices of Press agitations, public demonstrations, and petitions. The
measure could also have been expected to open up the way towards
reconciling relations between the English and Boer races, beginning in
the Transvaal, where it was hoped that the burghers would be gained over
as friends, and so to stand aloof from the Afrikaner Bond. These were
the supreme objects for peaceful progress and not for annexation. Solemn
assurances from highest quarters were repeatedly given that no designs
existed against the integrity of the Republic, that nothing unfriendly
lurked behind the franchise demand, but that necessity dictated it for
general good and the preservation of peace. Nor were other diplomatic
means left unemployed to ensure the acceptance of the franchise reform.
In addition to firmness of attitude and a display of actual force, most
of the other Powers, including the United States of America, were
induced to add their weight of persuasion in urging upon the Transvaal
the adoption of the measures demanded by England for correcting the
existing trouble. It may be urged that the display of force in sending
the first batches of troops would have afforded grounds for
exasperation, and be construed by the Transvaal as a menace and actual
hostility, tending to precipitate a conflict which it was so earnestly
intended to avoid. To this may be replied that the 20,000 men sent in
August were readily viewed as placing the hitherto undermanned Colonial
garrisons upon an appropriate peace effective only; but not so with
respect to the army corps of 50,000 men despatched in September--this
was felt as an intended restraint against "Bond" projects, to enforce
the observance of any agreement which the Transvaal might for the nonce
assent to, and above all it was tending, unless at once opposed by the
Bond, to weaken its ranks by producing hesitation and ultimate defection
from that body; the die was thus to be cast, duplicity appeared to be
played out--the ultimatum of 9th October was the outcome; and England,
though unprepared, could not possibly accept it otherwise than as a
wilful challenge to war.
As the pursuit of our study will show, the success of Mr. Chamberlain's
diplomacy to avert war depended upon the very slender prospects that the
Transvaal Government might have been induced to waver, and finally to
break with the Afrikaner Bond--a forlorn hope indeed, considering the
perfection which that formidable organization had reached. Its cherished
objects were not meant to be abandoned. The advice of "Bond" leaders
prevailed. War was declared and the Rubicon crossed in enthusiastic
expectations of soon realizing the long-deferred Bond motto: "The
expulsion of the hateful English."
It is true the Transvaal had made a show of acquiescence to British and
foreign pressure. This first took the shape of an offer of a seven
years' franchise, and then one of five years, exceeding even Mr.
Milner's demands as to the number of Uitlander representation. That of
seven years was so fenced in with nugatory trammels and conditions that
it had for those reasons to be rejected; whilst that at five years was
coupled with the equally unacceptable conditions that the claim of
suzerainty should be renounced, and that in all other respects the
Transvaal should be recognised as absolutely independent in terms of the
Sand River Convention of 1852.
Those offers could hardly have been made in sincerity, but rather as a
temporary device and to meet the susceptibilities of the advising
Powers, for all the time preparations for war were never relaxed for a
moment, but were pushed on with extreme vigour. On the other hand, the
British programme seeking to ensure peace by the franchise expedient had
been strictly followed without deviation. When the Transvaal Government
professed irritation over the disposition of some British troops too
near the Transvaal border, they were promptly removed to more remote and
less strategic positions, rather than incur the risk of rupture. During
the month preceding the outbreak of the war, some large continental
consignments of war munitions were, as usual, permitted to reach the
Republics unhindered through several Colonial ports, portions being
actually smuggled over the Colonial railways as merchandise addressed to
a well-known Pretoria firm, but on arrival were secretly delivered,
under cover of night, at the various forts and arsenals. These
proceedings were carried out with the connivance of the Colonial Bond
authorities, and though known to the British Governor, it was all winked
at rather than hazard the momentous objects of peace by the introduction
of another knotty subject. To sum up the situation, it was a diplomatic
contest on the part of Great Britain aiming at peace and to safeguard
her possessions and prestige, while the Afrikaner Bond, on the other
part, continued active in the work of sedition and preparing for a war
of usurpation. Every one must admit that the demand of the British
Ministry for an immediate and adequate representation proceeded from the
necessity and the desire to overcome the South African crisis in a just
and pacific way. The measure was counted upon to effect conciliation
between the Uitlander and burgher elements, and as a further result was
earnestly hoped to bring about the secession of the Transvaal from the
Afrikaner Bond, and so reduce that dangerous confederacy to a somewhat
negligible impotence. To discover other objects of
|
woman
too, though unfortunately nearly stone deaf.
Though the palace on the Linden may have been commonplace and ugly,
the Old Schloss has to my mind the finest interior in Europe. It may
lack the endless, bare, gigantic halls of the Winter Palace in
Petrograd, and it may contain fewer rooms than the great rambling
Hofburg in Vienna, but I maintain that, with the possible exception
of the Palace in Madrid, no building in Europe {35} can compare
internally with the Old Schloss in Berlin. I think the effect the
Berlin palace produces on the stranger is due to the series of rooms
which must be traversed before the State apartments proper are
reached. These rooms, of moderate dimensions, are very richly
decorated. Their painted ceilings, encased in richly-gilt "coffered"
work in high relief, have a Venetian effect, recalling some of the
rooms in the Doge's Palace in the sea-girt city of the Adriatic.
Their silk-hung walls, their pictures, and the splendid pieces of old
furniture they contain, redeem these rooms from the soulless,
impersonal look most palaces wear. They recall the rooms in some of
the finer English or French country-houses, although no private house
would have them in the same number. The rooms that dwell in my
memory out of the dozen or so that formed the _enfilade_ are, first,
the "Drap d'Or Kammer," with its droll hybrid appellation, the walls
of which were hung, as its name implies, with cloth of gold; then the
"Red Eagle Room," with its furniture and mirrors of carved wood,
covered with thin plates of beaten silver, producing an indescribably
rich effect, and the "Red Velvet" room. This latter had its walls
hung with red velvet bordered by broad bands of silver lace, and
contained some splendid old gilt furniture.
The Throne room was one of the most sumptuous in the world. It had
an arched painted ceiling, from which depended some beautiful old
chandeliers of cut rock crystal, and the walls, which framed {36}
great panels of Gobelin tapestry of the best period, were highly
decorated, in florid rococo style, with pilasters and carved groups
representing the four quarters of the world. The whole of the wall
surface was gilded; carvings, mouldings, and pilasters forming one
unbroken sheet of gold. We were always told that the musicians'
gallery was of solid silver, and that it formed part of Frederick the
Great's war-chest. As a matter of fact, Frederick had himself melted
the original gallery down and converted it into cash for one of his
campaigns. By his orders, a facsimile gallery was carved of wood
heavily silvered over. The effect produced, however, was the same,
as we were hardly in a position to scrutinise the hall-mark. The
room contained four semi-circular buffets, rising in diminishing
tiers, loaded with the finest specimens the Prussian Crown possessed
of old German silver-gilt drinking-cups of Nuremberg and Augsburg
workmanship of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
When the Throne room was lighted up at night the glowing colours of
the Gobelin tapestry and the sheen of the great expanses of gold and
silver produced an effect of immense splendour. With the possible
exception of the Salle des Fêtes in the Luxembourg Palace in Paris,
it was certainly the finest Throne room in Europe.
The first time I saw the Luxembourg hall was as a child of seven,
under the Second Empire, when I was absolutely awe-struck by its
magnificence. It then contained Napoleon the Third's throne, and
{37} was known as the "Salle du Trône." A relation pointed out to me
that the covering and curtains of the throne, instead of being of the
stereotyped crimson velvet, were of purple velvet, all spangled with
the golden bees of the Bonapartes. The Luxembourg hall had then in
the four corners of the coved ceiling an ornament very dear to the
meretricious but effective taste of the Second Empire. Four immense
globes of sky-blue enamel supported four huge gilt Napoleonic eagles
with outspread wings. To the crude taste of a child the purple
velvet of the throne, powdered with golden bees, and the gilt eagles
on their turquoise globes, appeared splendidly sumptuous. Of course
after 1870 all traces of throne and eagles were removed, as well as
the countless "N. III's" with which the walls were plentifully
besprinkled.
What an astute move of Louis Napoleon's it was to term himself the
"Third," counting the poor little "Aiglon," the King of Rome, as the
second of the line, and thus giving a look of continuity and
stability to a brand-new dynasty! Some people say that the
assumption of this title was due to an accident, arising out of a
printer's error. After his _coup d'état_, Louis Napoleon issued a
proclamation to the French people, ending "Vive Napoleon!!!" The
printer, mistaking the three notes of exclamation for the numeral
III, set up "Vive Napoleon III." The proclamation appeared in this
form, and Louis Napoleon, at once recognising the advantages of it,
adhered to the style. {38} Whether this is true or not I cannot say.
I was then too young to be able to judge for myself, but older people
have told me that the mushroom Court of the Tuileries eclipsed all
others in Europe in splendour. The _parvenu_ dynasty needed all the
aid it could derive from gorgeous ceremonial pomp to maintain its
position successfully.
To return to Berlin, beyond the Throne room lay the fine picture
gallery, nearly 200 feet long. At Court entertainments all the
German officers gathered in this picture gallery and made a living
hedge, between the ranks of which the guests passed on their way to
the famous "White Hall." These long ranks of men in their
resplendent _Hofballanzug_ were really a magnificent sight, and
whoever first devised this most effective bit of stage-management
deserves great credit.
The White Hall as I knew it was a splendidly dignified room. As its
name implies, it was entirely white, the mouldings all being silvered
instead of gilt. Both Germans and Russians are fond of substituting
silvering for gilding. Personally I think it most effective, but as
the French with their impeccable good taste never employ silvering,
there must be some sound artistic reason against its use.
It must be reluctantly confessed that the show of feminine beauty at
Berlin was hardly on a level with the perfect _mise-en-scène_. There
were three or four very beautiful women. Countess Karolyi, the
Austrian Ambassadress, herself a Hungarian, was a tall, graceful
blonde with beautiful hair; she {39} was full of infinite attraction.
Princess William Radziwill, a Russian, was, I think, the loveliest
human being I have ever seen; she was, however, much dreaded on
account of her mordant tongue. Princess Carolath-Beuthen, a
Prussian, had first seen the light some years earlier than these two
ladies. She was still a very beautiful woman, and eventually married
as her second husband Count Herbert Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor's
eldest son.
There was, unfortunately, a very wide gap between the looks of these
"stars" and those of the rest of the company.
The interior of the Berlin Schloss put Buckingham Palace completely
in the shade. The London palace was unfortunately decorated in the
"fifties," during the _époque de mauvais goût_, as the French
comprehensively term the whole period between 1820 and 1880, and it
bears the date written on every unfortunate detail of its decoration.
It is beyond any question whatever the product of the "period of bad
taste." I missed, though, in Berlin the wealth of flowers which
turns Buckingham Palace into a garden on Court Ball nights.
Civilians too in London have to appear at Court in knee-breeches and
stockings; in Berlin trousers were worn, thus destroying the
_habillé_ look. As regards the display of jewels and the beauty of
the women at the two Courts, Berlin was simply nowhere. German
uniforms were of every colour of the rainbow; with us there is an
undue predominance of scarlet, so that the kaleidoscopic effect of
Berlin was never {40} attained in London, added to which too much
scarlet and gold tends to kill the effect of the ladies' dresses.
At the Prussian Court on these State occasions an immense number of
pages made their appearance. I myself had been a Court page in my
youth, but whereas in England little boys were always chosen for this
part, in Berlin the tallest and biggest lads were selected from the
Cadet School at Lichterfelde. A great lanky gawk six feet high, with
an incipient moustache, does not show up to advantage in lace
ruffles, with his thin spindle-shanks encased in silk stockings; a
page's trappings being only suitable for little boys. I remember
well the day when I and my fellow-novice were summoned to try on our
new page's uniforms. Our white satin knee-breeches and
gold-embroidered white satin waistcoats left us quite cold, but we
were both enchanted with the little pages' swords, in their
white-enamelled scabbards, which the tailor had brought with him. We
had neither of us ever possessed a real sword of our own before, and
the steel blades were of the most inviting sharpness. We agreed that
the opportunity was too good a one to be lost, so we determined to
slip out into the garden in our new finery and there engage in a
deadly duel. It was further agreed to thrust really hard with the
keen little blades, "just to see what would happen." Fortunately for
us, we had been overheard. We reached the garden, and, having found
a conveniently secluded spot, had just {41} commenced to make those
vague flourishes with our unaccustomed weapons which our experience,
derived from pictures, led us to believe formed the orthodox
preliminaries to a duel, when the combat was sternly interrupted.
Otherwise there would probably have been vacancies for one if not two
fresh Pages of Honour before nightfall. What a pity there were no
"movies" in those days! What a splendid film could have been made of
two small boys, arrayed in all the bravery of silk stockings, white
satin breeches, and lace ruffles, their red tunics heavy with bullion
embroidery, engaged in a furious duel in a big garden. When the news
of our escapade reached the ears of the highest quarters, preemptory
orders were issued to have the steel blades removed from our swords
and replaced with innocuous pieces of shaped wood. It was very
ignominious; still the little swords made a brave show, and no one by
looking at them could guess that the white scabbards shielded nothing
more deadly than an inoffensive piece of oak. A page's sword, by the
way, is not worn at the left side in the ordinary manner, but is
passed through two slits in the tunic, and is carried in the small of
the back, so that the boy can keep his hands entirely free.
The "White Hall" has a splendid inlaid parquet floor, with a crowned
Prussian eagle in the centre of it. This eagle was a source of
immense pride to the palace attendants, who kept it in a high state
of polish. As a result the eagle was as slippery as ice, and woe
betide the unfortunate dancer {42} who set his foot on it. He was
almost certain to fall; and to fall down at a Berlin State ball was
an unpardonable offence. If a German officer, the delinquent had his
name struck off the list of those invited for a whole year. If a
member of the Corps Diplomatique, he received strong hints to avoid
dancing again. Certainly the diplomats were sumptuously entertained
at supper at the Berlin Palace; whether the general public fared as
well I do not know.
Urbain, the old Emperor William's French chef, who was responsible
for these admirable suppers, had published several cookery books in
French, on the title-page of which he described himself as "Urbain,
premier officier de bouche de S.M. l'Empereur d'Allemagne." This
quaint-sounding title was historically quite correct, it being the
official appellation of the head cooks of the old French kings. A
feature of the Berlin State balls was the stirrup-cup of hot punch
given to departing guests. Knowing people hurried to the grand
staircase at the conclusion of the entertainment; here servants
proffered trays of this delectable compound. It was concocted, I
believe, of equal parts of arrack and rum, with various other unknown
ingredients. In the same way, at Buckingham Palace in Queen
Victoria's time, wise persons always asked for hock cup. This was
compounded of very old hock and curious liqueurs, from a
hundred-year-old recipe. A truly admirable beverage! Now, alas!
since Queen Victoria's day, only a memory.
{43}
The Princesses of the House of Prussia had one ordeal to face should
they become betrothed to a member of the Royal Family of any other
country. They took leave formally of the diplomats at the Palace,
"making the circle" by themselves. I have always understood that
Prussian princesses were trained for this from their childhood by
being placed in the centre of a circle of twenty chairs, and being
made to address some non-committal remark to each chair in turn, in
German, French, and English. I remember well Princess Louise
Margaret of Prussia, afterwards our own Duchess of Connaught, who was
to become so extraordinarily popular not only in England but in India
and Canada as well, making her farewell at Berlin on her betrothal.
She "made the circle" of some forty people, addressing a remark or
two to each, entirely alone, save for two of the great long, gawky
Prussian pages in attendance on her, looking in their red tunics for
all the world like London-grown geraniums--all stalk and no leaves.
It is a terribly trying ordeal for a girl of eighteen, and the
Duchess once told me that she nearly fainted from sheer nervousness
at the time, although she did not show it in the least.
If I may be permitted a somewhat lengthy digression, I would say that
it is at times extremely difficult to find topics of conversation.
Years afterwards, when I was stationed at our Lisbon Legation, the
Papal Nuncio was very tenacious of his dignity. In Catholic
countries the Nuncio is _ex officio_ head {44} of the Diplomatic
Body, and the Nuncio at Lisbon expected every diplomat to call on him
at least six times a year. On his reception days the Nuncio always
arrayed himself in his purple robes and a lace cotta, with his great
pectoral emerald cross over it. He then seated himself in state in a
huge carved chair, with a young priest as aide-de-camp, standing
motionless behind him. It was always my ill-fortune to find the
Nuncio alone. Now what possible topic of conversation could I, a
Protestant, find with which to fill the necessary ten minutes with an
Italian Archbishop _in partibus_. We could not well discuss the
latest fashions in copes, or any impending changes in the College of
Cardinals. Most providentally, I learnt that this admirable
ecclesiastic, so far from despising the pleasures of the table, made
them his principal interest in life. I know no more of the
intricacies of the Italian _cuisine_ than Melchizedek knew about
frying sausages, but I had a friend, the wife of an Italian
colleague, deeply versed in the mysteries of Tuscan cooking. This
kindly lady wrote me out in French some of the choicest recipes in
her extensive _répertoire_, and I learnt them all off by heart.
After that I was the Nuncio's most welcome visitor. We argued hotly
over the respective merits of _risotto alia Milanese_ and _risotto al
Salto_. We discussed _gnocchi_, _pasta asciutta_, and novel methods
of preparing _minestra_, I trust without undue partisan heat, until
the excellent prelate's eyes gleamed and his mouth began to water.
Donna Maria, my Italian friend, proved an {45} inexhaustible mine of
recipes. She always produced new ones, which I memorised, and
occasionally wrote out for the Nuncio, sometimes, with all the valour
of ignorance, adding a fancy ingredient or two on my own account. On
one occasion, after I had detailed the constituent parts of an
extraordinarily succulent composition of rice, cheese, oil,
mushrooms, chestnuts, and tomatoes, the Nuncio nearly burst into
tears with emotion, and I feel convinced that, heretic though I might
be, he was fully intending to give me his Apostolic benediction, had
not the watchful young priest checked him. I felt rewarded for my
trouble when my chief, the British Minister, informed me that the
Nuncio considered me the most intelligent young man he knew. He
added further that he enjoyed my visits, as my conversation was so
interesting.
The other occasion on which I experienced great conversational
difficulties was in Northern India at the house of a most popular and
sporting Maharajah. His mother, the old Maharani, having just
completed her seventy-first year, had emerged from the seclusion of
the zenana, where she had spent fifty-five years of her life, or, in
Eastern parlance, had "come from behind the curtain." We paid short
ceremonial visits at intervals to the old lady, who sat amid piles of
cushions, a little brown, shrivelled, mummy-like figure, so swathed
in brocades and gold tissue as to be almost invisible. The Maharajah
was most anxious that I should talk to his mother, but what possible
subject of conversation {46} could I find with an old lady who had
spent fifty-five years in the pillared (and somewhat uncleanly)
seclusions of the zenana? Added to which the Maharani knew no Urdu,
but only spoke Bengali, a language of which I am ignorant. This
entailed the services of an interpreter, always an embarrassing
appendage. On occasions of this sort Morier's delightful book _Hadji
Baba_ is invaluable, for the author gives literal English
translations of all the most flowery Persian compliments. Had the
Maharani been a Mohammedan, I could have addressed her as "Oh
moon-faced ravisher of hearts! I trust that you are reposing under
the canopy of a sound brain!" Being a Hindoo, however, she would not
be familiar with Persian forms of politeness. A few remarks on lawn
tennis, or the increasing price of polo ponies, would obviously fail
to interest her. You could not well discuss fashions with an old
lady who had found one single garment sufficient for her needs all
her days, and any questions as to details of her life in the zenana,
or that of the other inmates of that retreat, would have been
indecorous in the highest degree. Nothing then remained but to
remark that the Maharajah was looking remarkably well, but that he
had unquestionably put on a great deal of weight since I had last
seen him. I received the startling reply from the interpreter
(delivered in the clipped, staccato tones most natives of India
assume when they speak English), "Her Highness says that, thanks to
God, and to his mother's cooking, her son's belly is increasing
indeed to vast size."
{47}
Bearing in mind these later conversational difficulties, I cannot but
admire the ease with which Royal personages, from long practice,
manage to address appropriate and varied remarks to perhaps forty
people of different nationalities, whilst "making the circle."
{48}
CHAPTER II
Easy-going Austria--Vienna--Charm of town--A little piece of
history---International families--Family
pride--"Schlüssel-Geld"--Excellence of Vienna restaurants--The origin
of "_Croissants_"--Good looks of Viennese women--Strauss's
operettas--A ball in an old Vienna house--Court entertainments--The
Empress Elisabeth--Delightful environs of Vienna--The Berlin Congress
of 1878--Lord Beaconsfield--M. de Blowitz--Treaty telegraphed to
London--Environs of Berlin--Potsdam and its lakes--The bow-oar of the
Embassy "four"--Narrow escape of ex-Kaiser--The Potsdam
palaces--Transfer to Petrograd--Glamour of Russia--An evening with
the Crown Prince at Potsdam.
Our Embassy at Vienna was greatly overworked at this time, owing to
the illness of two of the staff, and some fresh developments of the
perennial "Eastern Question." I was accordingly "lent" to the Vienna
Embassy for as long as was necessary, and left at once for the
Austrian capital.
At the frontier station of Tetschen the transition from cast-iron,
dictatorial, overbearing Prussian efficiency to the good-natured,
easy-going, slipshod methods of the "ramshackle Empire" was
immediately apparent.
The change from Berlin to Vienna was refreshing. The straight,
monotonous, well-kept streets of the Northern capital lacked life and
animation. It was a very fine frame enclosing no picture. The
Vienna {49} streets were as gay as those of Paris, and one was
conscious of being in a city with centuries of traditions. The Inner
Town of Vienna with its narrow winding streets is extraordinarily
picturesque. The demolisher has not been given the free hand he has
been allowed in Paris, and the fine _baroque_ houses still remaining
give an air of great distinction to this part of the town, with its
many highly-decorative, if somewhat florid, fountains and columns.
One was no longer in the "pushful" atmosphere of Prussia. These
cheery, easy-going Viennese loved music and dancing, eating and
drinking, laughter and fun. They were quite content to drift lazily
down the stream of life, with as much enjoyment and as little trouble
as possible. They might be a decadent race, but they were
essentially _gemüthliche Leute_. The untranslatable epithet
_gemüthlich_ implies something at once "comfortable," "sociable,"
"cosy," and "pleasant."
The Austrian aristocracy were most charming people. They had all
intermarried for centuries, and if they did not trouble their
intellect much, there may have been physical difficulties connected
with the process for which they were not responsible. The degree of
warmth of their reception of foreigners was largely dependent upon
whether he, or she, could show the indispensable _sechzehn Ahnen_
(the "sixteen quarterings"). Once satisfied (or the reverse) as to
this point, to which they attach immense importance, the situation
became easier. As the whole of these people were interrelated, they
{50} were all on Christian names terms, and the various "Mitzis,"
"Kitzis," "Fritzis," and other characteristically Austrian
abbreviations were a little difficult to place at times.
It was impossible not to realise that the whole nation was living on
the traditions of their splendid past. It must be remembered that in
the sixteenth century the Hapsburgs ruled the whole of Europe with
the exception of France, England, Russia, and the Scandinavian
countries. For centuries after Charlemagne assumed the Imperial
Crown there had been only one Emperor in Europe, the "Holy Roman
Emperor," the "Heiliger Römischer Kaiser," the fiction being, of
course, that he was the descendant of the Cæsars. The word "Kaiser"
is only the German variant of Cæsar. France and England had always
consistently refused to acknowledge the overlordship of the Emperor,
but the prestige of the title in German-speaking lands was immense,
though the Holy Roman Empire itself was a mere simulacrum of power.
In theory the Emperor was elected; in practice the title came to be a
hereditary appanage of the proud Hapsburgs. It was, I think,
Talleyrand who said "L'Autrice a la Fächeuse habitude d'être toujours
battue," and this was absolutely true. Austria was defeated with
unfailing regularity in almost every campaign, and the Hapsburgs saw
their immense dominions gradually slipping from their grasp. It was
on May 14, 1804, that Napoleon was crowned Emperor of the French in
Paris, and Francis II, the last of {51} the Holy Roman Emperors, was
fully aware that Napoleon's next move would be to supplant him and
get himself elected as "Roman Emperor." This Napoleon would have
been able to achieve, as he had bribed the Electors of Bavaria,
Württemberg, and Saxony by creating them kings. For once a Hapsburg
acted with promptitude. On August 11, 1804, Francis proclaimed
himself hereditary Emperor of Austria, and two years later he
abolished the title of Holy Roman Emperor. The Empire, after a
thousand years of existence, flickered out ingloriously in 1806. The
pride of the Hapsburgs had received a hundred years previously a rude
shock. Peter the Great, after consolidating Russia, abolished the
title of Tsar of Muscovy, and proclaimed himself Emperor of All the
Russias; purposely using the same term "Imperator" as that employed
by the Roman Emperor, and thus putting himself on an equality with
him.
I know by experience that it is impossible to din into the heads of
those unfamiliar with Russia that since Peter the Great's time there
has never been a Tsar. The words "Tsar," "Tsarina," "Cesarevitch,"
beloved of journalists, exist only in their imagination; they are
never heard in Russia. The Russians termed their Emperor "Gosudar
Imperator," using either or both of the words. Empress is
"Imperatritza"; Heir Apparent "Nadslyédnik." If you mentioned the
words "Tsar" or "Tsarina" to any ordinary Russian peasant, I doubt if
he would understand you, but I am well {52} aware that it is no use
repeating this, the other idea is too firmly ingrained. The
Hapsburgs had yet another bitter pill to swallow. Down to the middle
of the nineteenth century the ancient prestige of the title Kaiser
and the glamour attached to it were maintained throughout the
Germanic Confederation, but in 1871 a second brand-new Kaiser arose
on the banks of the Spree, and the Hapsburgs were shorn of their long
monopoly.
Franz Josef of Austria must have rued the day when Sigismund sold the
sandy Mark of Brandenburg to Frederick Count of Hohenzollern in 1415,
and regretted the acquiescence in 1701 of his direct ancestor, the
Emperor Leopold I, in the Elector of Brandenburg's request that he
might assume the title of King of Prussia. The Hohenzollerns were
ever a grasping race. I think that it was Louis XIV of France who,
whilst officially recognising the new King of Prussia, refused to
speak of him as such, and always alluded to him as "Monsieur le
Marquis de Brandenbourg."
No wonder that the feeling of bitterness against Prussia amongst the
upper classes of Austria was very acute in the "'seventies." The
events of 1866 were still too recent to have been forgotten. In my
time the great Austrian ladies affected the broadest Vienna popular
dialect, probably to emphasise the fact that they were not Prussians.
Thus the sentence "ein Glas Wasser, bitte," became, written in
phonetic English, "a' Glawss Vawsser beet." I myself was much
rallied on my pedantic {53} North-German pronunciation, and had in
self-defence to adopt unfamiliar Austrian equivalents for many words.
The curious international families which seemed to abound in Vienna
always puzzled me. Thus the princes d'Aremberg are Belgians, but
there was one Prince d'Aremberg in the Austrian service, whilst his
brother was in the Prussian Diplomatic Service, the remainder of the
family being Belgians. There were, in the same way, many
German-speaking Pourtales in Berlin in the German service, and more
French-speaking ones in Paris in the French service. The Duc de Croy
was both a Belgian and an Austrian subject. The Croys are one of the
oldest families in Europe, and are _ebenbürtig_ ("born on an
equality") with all the German Royalties. They therefore show no
signs of respect to Archdukes and Archduchesses when they meet them.
Although I cannot vouch personally for them, never having myself seen
them, I am told that there are two pictures in the Croy Palace at
Brussels which reach the apogee of family pride. The first depicts
Noah embarking on his ark. Although presumably anxious about the
comfort of the extensive live-stock he has on board, Noah finds time
to give a few parting instructions to his sons. On what is
technically called a "bladder" issuing from his mouth are the words,
"And whatever you do, don't forget to bring with you the family
papers of the Croys." ("Et surtout ayez soin de ne pas oublier les
papiers de la Maison de Croy!") The {54} other picture represents
the Madonna and Child, with the then Duke of Croy kneeling in
adoration before them. Out of the Virgin Mary's mouth comes a
"bladder" with the words "But please put on your hat, dear cousin."
("Mais couvrez vous donc, cher cousin.")
The whole of Viennese life is regulated by one exceedingly tiresome
custom. After 10 or 10.15 p.m. the hall porter (known in Vienna as
the "House-master") of every house in the city has the right of
levying a small toll of threepence on each person entering or leaving
the house. The whole life of the Vienna bourgeois is spent in trying
to escape this tax, known as "Schlüssel-Geld." The theatres commence
accordingly at 6 p.m. or 6.30, which entails dining about 5 p.m. A
typical Viennese middle-class family will hurry out in the middle of
the last act and scurry home breathlessly, as the fatal hour
approaches. Arrived safely in their flat, in the last stages of
exhaustion, they say triumphantly to each other. "We have missed the
end of the play, and we are rather out of breath, but never mind, we
have escaped the 'Schlüssel-Geld,' and as we are four, that makes a
whole shilling saved!"
An equally irritating custom is the one that ordains that in
restaurants three waiters must be tipped in certain fixed
proportions. The "Piccolo," who brings the wine and bread, receives
one quarter of the tip; the "Speisetrager," who brings the actual
food, gets one half; the "Zahlkellner," {55} who brings the bill,
gets one quarter. All these must be given separately, so not only
does it entail a hideous amount of mental arithmetic, but it also
necessitates the perpetual carrying about of pocketfuls of small
change.
The Vienna restaurants were quite excellent, with a local cuisine of
extraordinary succulence, and more extraordinary names. A universal
Austrian custom, not only in restaurants but in private houses as
well, is to serve a glass of the delicious light Vienna beer with the
soup. Even at State dinners at the Hof-Burg, a glass of beer was
always offered with the soup. The red wine, Voslauer, grown in the
immediate vicinity of the city, is so good, and has such a
distinctive flavour, that I wonder it has never been exported. The
restaurants naturally suggest the matchless Viennese orchestras.
They were a source of never-ending delight to me. The distinction
they manage to give to quite commonplace little airs is
extraordinary. The popular songs, "Wiener-Couplets," melodious, airy
nothings, little light soap-bubbles of tunes, are one of the
distinctive features of Vienna. Played by an Austrian band as only
an Austrian band can play them, with astonishing vim and fire, and
supremely dainty execution, these little fragile melodies are quite
charming and irresistibly attractive. We live in a progressive age.
In the place of these Austrian bands with their finished execution
and consummately musicianly feeling, the twentieth century {56} has
invented the Jazz band with its ear-splitting, chaotic din.
There is a place in Vienna known as the Heiden-Schuss, or "Shooting
of the heathens." The origin of this is quite interesting.
In 1683 the Turks invaded Hungary, and, completely overrunning the
country, reached Vienna, to which they laid siege, for the second
time in its history. Incidentally, they nearly succeeded in
capturing it. During the siege bakers' apprentices were at work one
night in underground bakehouses, preparing the bread for next day's
consumption. The lads heard a rhythmic "thump, thump, thump," and
were much puzzled by it. Two of the apprentices, more intelligent
than the rest, guessed that the Turks were driving a mine, and ran
off to the Commandant of Vienna with their news. They saw the
principal engineer officer and told him of their discovery. He
accompanied them back to the underground bakehouse, and at once
determined that the boys were right. Having got the direction from
the sound, the Austrians drove a second tunnel, and exploded a
powerful counter-mine. Great numbers of Turks were killed, and the
siege was temporarily raised. On September 12 of the same year
(1683) John Sobieski, King of Poland, utterly routed the Turks, drove
them back into their own country, and Vienna was saved. As a reward
for the intelligence shown by the baker-boys, they were granted the
privilege of making and selling a rich kind of roll (into the {57}
composition of which butter entered largely) in the shape of the
Turkish emblem, the crescent. These rolls became enormously popular
amongst the Viennese, who called them _Kipfeln_. When Marie
Antoinette married Louis XVI of France, she missed her Kipfel, and
sent to Vienna for an Austrian baker to teach his Paris _confrères_
the art of making them. These rolls, which retained their original
shape, became as popular in Paris as they had been in Vienna, and
were known as _Croissants_, and that is the reason why one of the
rolls which are brought you with your morning coffee in Paris will be
baked in the form of a crescent.
The extraordinary number of good-looking women, of all classes to be
seen in the streets of Vienna was most striking, especially after
Berlin, where a lower standard of feminine beauty prevailed.
Particularly noticeable were the admirable figures with which most
Austrian women are endowed. In the far-off "'seventies" ladies did
not huddle themselves into a shapeless mass of abbreviated oddments
of material--they dressed, and their clothes fitted them; and a woman
on whom Nature (or Art) had bestowed a good figure was able to
display her gifts to the world. In the same way, Fashion did
|
time of Handel's arrival in this
country there was no book printed which did not show unmistakably that
its writer loved music. It is a fact (as the learned can vouch) that
Erasmus considered the English the most given up to music of all the
peoples of Europe; and how far these were surpassed by the English is
further shown by the fact that English musicians were as common in
continental towns in those days as foreign musicians are in England
nowadays. I refrain from quoting Peacham, North, Anthony Wood, Pepys,
and the rest of the much over-quoted; but I wish to lay stress on the
fact that here music was widespread and highly cultivated, just as it
was in Germany in the eighteenth century. Moreover, an essential
factor in the development of the German school was not wanting in
England. Each German prince had his Capellmeister; and English nobles
and gentlemen, wealthier than German princes, differing from them only
in not being permitted to assume a pretentious title, had each his
Musick-master. I believe I could get together a long list of musicians
who were thus kept. It will be remembered that when Handel came to
England he quickly entered the service of the Duke of Chandos. The
royal court always had a number of musicians employed in the making or
the performing of music. Oliver Cromwell retained them and paid them;
Charles the Second added to them, and in many cases did not pay them
at all, so that at least one is known to have died of starvation, and
the others were everlastingly clamouring for arrears of salary. It was
the business of these men (in the intervals of asking for their
salaries) to produce music for use in the church and in the house or
palace; that for church use being of course nearly entirely
vocal--masses or anthems; that for house use, vocal and
instrumental--madrigals and fancies (_i.e._ fantasias). As generation
succeeded generation, a certain body of technique was built up and a
mode of expression found; and at length the first great wave of music
culminated in the works of Tallis and Byrde. Their technique and mode
of expression I shall say something about presently; and all the
criticism I have to pass on them is that Byrde is infinitely greater
than Tallis, and seems worthy indeed to stand beside Palestrina and
Sweelinck. Certainly anyone who wishes to have a true notion of the
music of this period should obtain (if he can) copies of the D minor
five-part mass, and the Cantiones Sacræ, and carefully study such
numbers as the "Agnus Dei" of the former and the profound "Tristitia
et anxietas" in the latter.
The learned branch of the English school reached its climax. Meantime
another branch, not unlearned, but caring less for scholastic
perfection than for perfect expression of poetic sentiment, was fast
growing. The history of the masque is a stale matter, so I will merely
mention that Campion, and many another with, before, and after him,
engaged during a great part of their lives in what can only be called
the manufacture of these entertainments. A masque was simply a
gorgeous show of secular ritual, of colour and of music--a kind of
Drury Lane melodrama in fact, but as far removed from Drury Lane as
this age is from that in the widespread faculty of appreciating
beauty. The music consisted of tunes of a popular outline and
sentiment, but they were dragged into the province of art by the
incapacity of those who wrote or adapted them to touch anything
without leaving it lovelier than when they lighted on it. Pages might
be, and I daresay some day will be, written about Dr. Campion's
melody, its beauty and power, the unique sense of rhythmic subtleties
which it shows, and withal its curiously English quality. But one
important thing we must observe: it is wholly secular melody. Even
when written in the ecclesiastical modes, it has no, or the very
slightest, ecclesiastical tinge. It is folk-melody with its face
washed and hair combed; it bears the same relation to English
folk-melody as a chorale from the "Matthew" Passion bears to its
original. Another important point is this: whereas the church
composers took a few Latin sentences and made no endeavour to treat
them so as to make sense in the singing, but made the words wait upon
the musical phrases, in Dr. Campion we see the first clear wish to
weld music and poem into one flawless whole. To an extent he
succeeded, but full success did not come till several generations had
first tried, tried and failed. Campion properly belongs to the
sixteenth century, and Harry Lawes, born twenty-five years before
Campion died, as properly belongs to the seventeenth century. In his
songs we find even more marked the determination that words and music
shall go hand in hand--that the words shall no longer be dragged at
the cart-tail of the melody, so to say. In fact, a main objection
against Lawes--and a true one in many instances--is that he sacrificed
the melody rather than the meaning of the poem. This is significant.
The Puritans are held to have damaged church music less by burning the
choir-books and pawning the organ-pipes than by insisting (as we may
say) on One word one note. As a matter of fact, this was not
exclusively a plank in the political platform of the Puritans. The
Loyalist Campion, the Loyalist Lawes, and many another Loyalist
insisted on it. Even when they did not write a note to each word, they
took care not to have long roulades (divisions) on unimportant words,
but to derive the accent of the music from that of the poem. This
showed mainly two tendencies: first, one towards expression of poetic
feeling and towards definiteness of that expression, the other towards
the entirely new technique which was to supersede the contrapuntal
technique of Byrde and Palestrina. In making a mass or an anthem or
secular composition, the practice of these old masters was to start
with a fragment of church or secular melody which we will call A;
after (say) the trebles had sung it or a portion of it, the altos took
it up and the trebles went on to a new phrase B, which dovetailed with
A. Then the tenors took up A, the altos went on to B, the trebles went
on to a new phrase C, until ultimately, if we lettered each
successive phrase that appeared, we should get clear away from the
beginning of the alphabet to X, Y, and Z. This, of course, is a crude
and stiff way of describing the process of weaving and interweaving by
which the old music was spun, for often the phrase A would come up
again and again in one section of a composition and sometimes
throughout the whole, and strict canon was comparatively rare in music
which was not called by that name; but the description will serve.
This technique proved admirable for vocal polyphony--how admirable we
have all the Flemish and Italian and English contrapuntal music to
show. But it was no longer available when music was wanted for the
single voice, unless that voice was treated as one of several real
parts, the others being placed in the accompaniment. A new technique
was therefore wanted. For that new technique the new composers went
back to the oldest technique of all. The old minstrels used music as a
means of giving accent and force to their poems; and now, as a means
of spinning a web of tone which should not only be beautiful, but also
give utterance to the feeling of the poem, composers went back to the
method of the minstrels. They disregarded rhythm more and more (as may
be seen if you compare Campion with Lawes), and sought only to make
the notes follow the accent of the poetry, thus converting music into
conventionally idealised speech or declamation. Lawes carried this
method as far as ever it has been, and probably can be, carried. When
Milton said,
"Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured notes
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent,"
he did not mean that Lawes was the first to bar his music, for music
had been barred long before Lawes. He meant that Lawes did not use the
poem as an excuse for a melody, but the melody as a means of
effectively declaiming the poet's verse. The poet (naturally) liked
this--hence Milton's compliments. It should be noted that many of the
musicians of this time were poets--of a sort--themselves, and wished
to make the most of their verses; so that it would be a mistake to
regard declamation as something forced by the poet, backed by popular
opinion, upon the musician. With Lawes, then, what we may call the
declamatory branch of the English school culminated. Except in his
avowedly declamatory passages, Purcell did not spin his web precisely
thus; but we shall presently see that his method was derived from the
declamatory method. Much remained to be done first. Lawes got rid of
the old scholasticism, now effete. But he never seemed quite sure that
his expression would come off. It is hard at this day to listen to his
music as Milton must have listened to it; but having done my best, I
am compelled to own that I find some of his songs without meaning or
comeliness, and must assume either that our ancestors of this period
had a sense which has been lost, or that the music played a less
important part compared with the poem than has been generally
supposed. Lawes lost rhythm, both as an element in beauty and a factor
in expression. Moreover, his harmonic resources were sadly limited,
for the old device of letting crossing parts clash in sweet discords
that resolved into as sweet or sweeter concords was denied him. What
would be called nowadays the new harmony, the new rhythm and the new
forms were developed during the Civil War and the Puritan reign. The
Puritans, loving music but detesting it in their churches, forced it
into purely secular channels; and we cannot say the result was bad,
for the result was Purcell. John Jenkins and a host of smaller men
developed instrumental music, and, though the forms they used were
thrown aside when Charles II. arrived, the power of handling the
instruments remained as a legacy to Charles's men. Charles drove the
secular movement faster ahead by banning the old ecclesiastical music
(which, it appears, gave him "the blues"), and by compelling his young
composers to write livelier strains for the church, that is, church
music which was in reality nothing but secular music. He sent Pelham
Humphries to Paris, and when Humphries came back "an absolute
Monsieur" (who does not remember that ever-green entry in the Diary?)
he brought with him all that could possibly have been learnt from
Lulli. He died at twenty-seven, having been Purcell's master; and
though Purcell's imagination was richer, deeper, more strenuous in the
ebb and flow of its tides, one might fancy that the two men had but
one spirit, which went on growing and fetching forth the fruits of the
spirit, while young Humphries' body decayed by the side of his younger
wife's in the Thames-sodden vaults of Westminster Abbey.
IV.
A complete list of Purcell's compositions appears somewhat formidable
at a first glance, but when one comes to examine it carefully the
solidity seems somewhat to melt out of it. The long string of church
pieces is made up of anthems, many of them far from long. The forty
odd "operas" are not operas at all, but sets of incidental pieces and
songs for plays, and some of the sets are very short. Thus Dryden
talks of Purcell setting "my three songs," and there are only half a
dozen "curtain-tunes," _i.e._ entr'actes. Many of the harpsichord
pieces are of tiny proportions. The sonatas of three and four parts
are no larger than Mozart's piano sonatas. Still, taking into account
the noble quality that is constantly maintained, we must admit that
Purcell used astonishingly the short time he was given. Much of his
music is lost; more of it lies in manuscript at the British Museum and
elsewhere. Some of it was issued last century, some early in this.
Four expensive volumes have been wretchedly edited and issued by the
Purcell Society, and those amongst us who live to the age of
Methuselah will probably see all the accessible works printed by this
body. Some half century ago Messrs. Novello published an edition of
the church music, stupidly edited by the stupidest editor who ever
laid clumsy fingers on a masterpiece. A shameful edition of the "King
Arthur" music was prepared for the Birmingham Festival of 1897 by Mr.
J.A. Fuller-Maitland, musical critic of "The Times." A publisher
far-sighted and generous enough to issue a trustworthy edition of all
Purcell's music at a moderate price has yet to be found.
Purcell's list is not long, but it is superb. Yet he opened out no new
paths, he made no leap aside from the paths of his predecessors, as
Gluck did in the eighteenth century and Wagner in the nineteenth. He
was one of their school; he went on in the direction they had led; but
the distance he travelled was enormous. Humphries, possibly Captain
Cook, even Christopher Gibbons, helped to open out the new way in
church music; Lawes, Matthew Lock, and Banister were before him at the
theatres; Lock and Dr. Blow had written odes before he was weaned; the
form and plan of his sonatas came certainly from Bassani, in all
likelihood from Corelli also; from John Jenkins and the other writers
of fancies he got something of his workmanship and art of weaving many
melodies into a coherent whole, and a knowledge of Lulli would help
him to attain terseness, and save him from that drifting which is the
weak point of the old English instrumental writers; he was acquainted
with the music of Carissimi, a master of choral effect. In a word, he
owed much to his predecessors, even as Bach, Haydn, Mozart, and
Beethoven owed to their predecessors; and he did as they did--won his
greatness by using to fine ends the means he found, rather than by
inventing the means, though, like them, some means he did invent.
Like his predecessors Purcell hung between the playhouse, the church,
and the court; but unlike most of them he had only one style, which
had to serve in one place as in another. I have already shown the
growth of the secular spirit in music. In Purcell that spirit reached
its height. His music is always secular, always purely pagan. I do not
mean that it is inappropriate in the church--for nothing more
appropriate was ever written--nor that Purcell was insincere, as our
modern church composers are insincere, without knowing it. I do mean
that of genuine religious emotion, of the sustained ecstasy of Byrde
and Palestrina, it shows no trace. I should not like to have to define
the religious beliefs of any man in Charles II.'s court, but it would
seem that Purcell was religious in his way. He accepted the God of
the church as the savage accepts the God of his fathers; he wrote his
best music with a firm conviction that it would please his God. But
his God was an entity placed afar off, unapproachable; and of entering
into communion with Him through the medium of music Purcell had no
notion. The ecstatic note I take to be the true note of religious art;
and in lacking and in having no sense of it Purcell stands close to
the early religious painters and monk-writers, the carvers of twelfth
century woodwork, and the builders of Gothic cathedrals. He thinks of
externals and never dreams of looking for "inward light"; and the
proof of this is that he seems never consciously to endeavour to
express a mood, but strenuously seeks to depict images called up by
the words he sets. With no intention of being flippant, but in all
earnestness, I declare it is my belief that if Purcell had ever set
the "Agnus Dei" (and I don't remember that he did) he would have drawn
a frisky lamb and tried to paint its snow-white fleece; and this not
because he lacked reverence, but because of his absolute religious
naïveté, and because this drawing and painting of outside objects (so
to speak) in music was his one mode of expression. It should be
clearly understood that word-painting is not descriptive music.
Descriptive music suggests to the ear, word-painting to the eye. But
the two merge in one another. What we call a higher note is so called
because sounds produced by the mere rapid vibrations make every
being, without exception, who has a musical ear, think of height, just
as a lower note makes us all think of depth. Hence a series of notes
forming an arch on paper may, and does, suggest an arch to one's
imagination through the ear. It is perhaps a dodge, but Handel used it
extensively--for instance, in such choruses as "All we like sheep,"
"When his loud voice" ("Jephtha"), nearly every choral number of
"Israel in Egypt," and some of the airs. Bach used it too, and we find
it--the rainbow theme in "Das Rheingold" is an example--in Wagner. But
with these composers "word-painting," as it is called, seems always to
be used for a special effect; whereas it is the very essence of
Purcell's music. He has been reproved for it by the eminent Hullah,
who prettily alludes to it as a "defect" from which other music
composed at the time suffers; but the truth is, you might as well call
rhyme a "defect" of the couplet or the absence of rhyme a "defect" of
blank verse. It is an integral part of the music, as inseparable as
sound from tone, as atoms from the element they constitute. But the
question, why did Purcell write thus, and not as Mozart and Beethoven,
brings me to the point at which I must show the precise relationship
in which Purcell stood to his musical ancestors, and how in writing as
he did he was merely carrying on and developing their technique.
For we must not forget that the whole problem for the seventeenth
century was one of technique. The difficulty was to spin a tone-web
which should be at once beautiful, expressive, and modern--modern
above all things, in some sort of touch with the common feeling of the
time. I have told how the earlier composers spun their web, and how
Lawes attained to loveliness of a special kind by pure declamation. In
later times there was an immense common fund of common phrases, any
one of which only needed modification by a composer to enable him to
express anything he pleased. But Purcell came betwixt the old time and
the new, and had to build up a technique which was not wholly his own,
by following with swift steps and indefatigable energy on lines
indicated even while Lawes was alive. Those lines were, of course, in
the direction of word-painting, and I must admit that the first
word-painting seems very silly to nineteenth century ears and
eyes--eyes not less than ears. To the work of the early men Purcell's
stands in just the same relation as Bach's declamation stands to
Lawes'. Lawes declaims with a single eye on making clear the points of
the poem: the voice rises or falls, lingers on a note or hastens away,
to that one end. Bach also declaims--indeed his music is entirely
based on declamation,--but as one who wishes to communicate an emotion
and regards the attainment of beauty as being quite as important as
expression. With him the voice rises or falls as a man's voice does
when he experiences keen sensation; but the wavy line of the melody as
it goes along and up and down the stave is treated conventionally and
changed into a lovely pattern for the ear's delight; and as there can
be no regular pattern without regular rhythm, rhythm is a vital
element in Bach's music. So with Purcell, with a difference. The early
"imitative" men had sought chiefly for dainty conceits. Pepys was the
noted composer of "Beauty, Retire" and his joy when he went to church,
"where fine music on the word trumpet" will be remembered. He
doubtless liked the clatter of it, and liked the clatter the more for
occurring on that word, and probably he was not very curious as to
whether it was really beautiful or not. But Purcell could not write an
unlovely thing. His music on the word trumpet would be beautiful (it
is in "Bonduca"); and if (as he did) he sent the bass plunging
headlong from the top to the bottom of a scale to illustrate "they
that go down to the sea in ships," that headlong plunge would be
beautiful too--so beautiful as to be heard with as great pleasure by
those who know what the words are about as by those who don't. Like
Bach, Purcell depended much on rhythm for the effect of his pattern;
unlike Bach, his patterns have a strangely picturesque quality;
through the ear they suggest the forms of leaf and blossom, the
trailing tendril,--suggest them only, and dimly, vaguely,--yet, one
feels, with exquisite fidelity. Thus Purcell, following those who, in
sending the voice part along the line, pressed it up at the word
"high" and down at "low," and thus got an irregularly wavy line of
tone or melody, solved the problem of spinning his continuous web of
sound; and the fact that his web is beautiful and possesses this
peculiar picturesqueness is his justification for solving the problem
in this way. After all, his way was the way of early designers, who
filled their circles, squares, and triangles with the forms of leaf
and flower. And just as those forms were afterwards conventionalised
and used by thousands who probably had no vaguest notion of their
origin, so many of Purcell's phrases became ossified and fell into the
common stock of phrases which form the language of music. It is
interesting to note that abroad Pasquini and Kuhlau went to work very
much in Purcell's fashion, and added to that same stock from which
Handel and Bach and every subsequent composer drew, each adding
something of his own.
It was not by accident that Purcell, with this astonishing fertility
of picturesque phrases, should also have written so much, and such
vividly coloured picturesque pieces--pieces, I mean, descriptive of
the picturesque. Of course, to write an imitative phrase is quite
another matter from writing a successful piece of descriptive music.
But in Purcell the same faculty enabled him to do both. No poet of
that time seems to have been enamoured of hedgerows and flowers and
fields, nor can I say with certitude that Purcell was. Yet in
imagination at least he loves to dwell amongst them; and not the
country alone, the thought of the sea also, stirs him deeply. There
need only be some mention of sunshine or rain among the leaves, green
trees, or wind-swept grass, the yellow sea-beach or the vast
sea-depths, and his imagination flames and flares. His best music was
written when he was appealed to throughout a long work--as "The
Tempest"--in this manner. Hence, it seems to me, that quality which
his music, above any other music in the world, possesses: a peculiar
sweetness, not a boudoir sweetness like Chopin's sweetness, nor a
sweetness corrected, like Chopin's, by a subtle strain of poisonous
acid or sub-acid quality, but the sweet and wholesome cleanliness of
the open air and fields, the freshness of sun showers and cool morning
winds. I am not exaggerating the importance of this element in his
music. It is perpetually present, so that at last one comes to think,
as I have been compelled to think this long time, that Purcell wrote
nothing but descriptive music all his life. Of course it may be that
the special formation of his melodies misleads one sometimes, and that
Purcell in inventing them often did not dream of depicting natural
objects. But, remembering the gusto with which he sets descriptive
words, using these phrases consciously with a picturesque purpose, it
is hard to accept this view. In all likelihood he was constituted
similarly to Weber, who, his son asserts, curiously converted the
lines and colours of trees and winding roads and all objects of nature
into thematic material (there is an anecdote--apparently, for a
wonder, a true one--that shows he took the idea of a march from a heap
of chairs stacked upside down in a beer-garden during a shower of
rain). But Purcell is infinitely simpler, less fevered, than Weber.
Sometimes his melodies have the long-drawn, frail delicacy, the
splendidly ordered irregularity of a trailing creeper, and something
of its endless variety of leaf clustering round a central stem. But
there is an entire absence of tropical luxuriance. A grave simplicity
prevails, and we find no jewellery; showing Purcell to have been a
supreme artist.
V.
So far I have spoken of his music generally, and now I come to deal
(briefly, for my space is far spent) with the orchestral, choral, and
chamber music and songs; and first with the choral music. I begin to
fear that by insisting so strongly on the distinctive sweetness of
Purcell's melody, I may have given a partially or totally wrong
impression. Let me say at once, therefore, that delicate as he often
was, and sweet as he was more often, although he could write melodies
which are mere iridescent filaments of tone, he never became flabby
or other than crisp, and could, and did, write themes as flexible,
sinewy, unbreakable as perfectly tempered steel bands. And these
themes he could lay together and weld into choruses of gigantic
strength. The subject and counter-subject of "Thou art the King of
Glory" (in the "Te Deum" in D), the theme of "Let all rehearse," and
the ground bass of the final chorus (both in "Dioclesian"), the
subjects of many of the fugues of the anthems, are as energetic as
anything written by Handel, Bach or Mozart. And as for the choruses he
makes of them, Handel's are perhaps loftier and larger structures, and
Bach succeeds in getting effects which Purcell never gets, for the
simple enough reason that Purcell, coming a generation before Bach,
never tried or thought of trying to get them. But within his limits he
achieves results that can only be described as stupendous. For
instance, the chorus I have just mentioned--"Let all rehearse"--makes
one think of Handel, because Handel obviously thought of it when he
wrote "Fixed in His everlasting seat," and though Handel works out the
idea to greater length, can we say that he gets a proportionately
greater effect? I have not the faintest wish to elevate Purcell at
Handel's expense, for Handel is to me, as to all men, one of the gods
of music; but Purcell also is one of the gods, and I must insist that
in this particular chorus he equalled Handel with smaller means and
within narrower limits. It is not always so, for Handel is king of
writers for the chorus, as Purcell is king of those who paint in
music; but though Handel wrote more great choruses, his debt to
Purcell is enormous. His way of hurling great masses of choral tone at
his hearers is derived from Purcell; and so is the rhetorical plan of
many of his choruses. But in Purcell, despite his sheer strength, we
never fail to get the characteristic Purcellian touch, the little
unexpected inflexion, or bit of coloured harmony that reminds that
this is the music of the open air, not of the study, that does more
than this, that actually floods you in a moment with a sense of the
spacious blue heavens with light clouds flying. For instance, one gets
it in the great "Te Deum" in the first section; again at "To thee,
cherubim," where the first and second trebles run down in liquid
thirds with magical effect; once more at the fourteenth bar of "Thou
art the King of Glory," where he uses the old favourite device of
following up the flattened leading note of the dominant key in one
part by the sharp leading note in another part--a device used with
even more exquisite result in the chorus of "Full fathom five."
Purcell is in many ways like Mozart, and in none more than in these
incessantly distinctive touches, though in character the touches are
as the poles apart. In Mozart, especially when he veils the poignancy
of his emotion under a scholastic mode of expression, a sudden tremor
in the voice, as it were, often betrays him, and none can resist the
pathos of it. Purcell's touches are pathetic, too, in another
fashion--pathetic because of the curious sense of human weakness, the
sense of tears, caused by the sudden relaxation of emotional tension
that inevitably results when one comes on a patch of simple naked
beauty when nothing but elaborate grandeur expressive of powerful
exaltation had been anticipated. That Purcell foresaw this result, and
deliberately used the means to achieve it, I cannot doubt. Those
momentary slackenings of tense excitement are characteristic of the
exalted mood and inseparable from it, and he must have known that they
really go to augment its intensity. All Purcell's choruses, however,
are not of Handelian mould, for he wrote many that are sheer
loveliness from beginning to end, many that are the very voice of the
deepest sadness, many, again, showing a gaiety, an "unbuttoned"
festivity of feeling, such as never came into music again until
Beethoven introduced it as a new thing. The opening of one of the
complimentary odes, "Celebrate this festival," fairly carries one off
one's feet with the excess of jubilation in the rollicking rhythm and
living melody of it. One of the most magnificent examples of
picturesque music ever written--if not the most magnificent, at any
rate the most delightful in detail--is the anthem, "Thy way, O God, is
holy." The picture-painting is prepared for with astonishing artistic
foresight, and when it begins the effect is tremendous. I advise
everyone who wishes to realise Purcell's unheard-of fertility of great
and powerful themes to look at "The clouds poured out water," the
fugue subject "The voice of Thy thunders," the biting emphasis of the
passage "the lightnings shone upon the ground," and the irresistible
impulse of "The earth was moved." And the supremacy of Purcell's art
is shown not more in these than in the succession of simple harmonies
by which he gets the unutterable mournful poignancy of "Thou knowest,
Lord," that unsurpassed and unsurpassable piece of choral writing
which Dr. Crotch, one of the "English school," living in an age less
sensitive even than this to Purcellian beauty, felt to be so great
that it would be a desecration to set the words again. Later composers
set the words again, feeling it no desecration, but possibly rather a
compliment to Purcell; and Purcell's setting abides, and looks down
upon every other, like Mozart's G minor and Beethoven's Ninth upon
every other symphony, or the finale of Wagner's "Tristan" upon every
other piece of love-music.
VI.
Purcell is also a chief, though not the chief, among song-writers. And
he stands in the second place by reason of the very faculty which
places him amongst the first of instrumental and choral writers. That
dominating picturesque power of his, that tendency to write
picturesque melodies as well as picturesque movements, compelled him
to treat the voice as he treated any other instrument, and he writes
page on page which would be at least as effective on any other
instrument; and as more can be got out of the voice than out of any
other instrument, and the tip-top song-writers got all out that could
be got out, it follows that Purcell is below them. But only the very
greatest of them have beaten him, and he often, by sheer perfection of
phrase, runs them very close. Still, Mozart, Bach, and Handel do move
us more profoundly. And an odd demonstration that Purcell the
instrumental writer is almost above Purcell the composer for the
voice, is that in such songs as "Halcyon Days" (in "The Tempest") the
same phrases are perhaps less grateful on the voice than when repeated
by the instrument. The phrase "That used to lull thee in thy sleep"
(in "The Indian Queen") is divine when sung, but how thrilling is its
touching expressiveness, how it seems to speak when the 'cellos repeat
it! There are, of course, truly vocal melodies in Purcell (as there
are in Beethoven and Berlioz, who also were not great writers for the
voice), and some of them might almost be Mozart's. The only difference
that may be felt between "While joys celestial" ("Cecilia Ode" of
1683) and a Mozart song, is that in Mozart one gets the frequent
human touch, and in Purcell the frequent suggestion of the free winds
and scented blossoms. The various scattered songs, such as "Mad Tom"
(which is possibly not Purcell's at all) or "Mad Bess" (which
certainly is), I have no room to discuss; but I may remark that the
madness was merely an excuse for exhibiting a series of passions in
what was reckoned at the time a natural manner. Quite possibly it was
then thought that in a spoken play only mad persons should sing, just
as Wagner insists that in music-drama only mad persons should speak;
and as a good deal of singing was required, there were a good many mad
parts. Probably Purcell would have treated all Wagner's characters,
and all Berlioz's, as utterly and irretrievably mad. Nor have I space
to discuss his instrumental music and his instrumentation, but must
refer shortly to the fact that the overtures to the plays are equal to
Handel's best in point of grandeur, and that in freedom, quality of
melody, and daring, and fruitful use of new harmonies, the sonatas are
ahead of anything attempted until Mozart came. They cannot be compared
to Bach's suites, and they are infinitely fresher than the writings of
the Italians whom he imitated. As for Purcell's instrumentation, it is
primitive compared to Mozart's, but when he uses the instrument in
group or batteries he obtains gorgeous effects of varied colour. He
gets delicious effects by means of obligato instrumental parts in the
accompaniments to such songs as "Charon the Peaceful Shade Invites";
and those who have heard the "Te Deum" in D may remember that even
Bach never got more wonderful results from the sweeter tones of the
trumpet.
VII.
Having shown how Purcell sprang from a race of English musicians, and
how he achieved greater things than any man of his time, it remains
only to be said that when, with Handel, the German flood deluged
England, all remembrance of Purcell and his predecessors was swiftly
swept away. His play-music was washed out of the theatres, his odes
were carried away from the concert-room; in a word, all his and the
earlier music was so completely forgotten that when Handel used anew
his old devices connoisseurs wondered why the Italians and Germans
should be able to bring forth such things while the English remained
impotent. So Handel and the Germans were imitated by every composer,
church or other, who came after, and all our "English music" is purely
German. That we shall ever throw off that yoke I do not care to
prophesy; but
|
on on King and Queen streets, last summer, I had a
funny experience. I was on the York street stand one night when a young
man with a black beard came up to me. There was a young woman with him,
not very good-looking but pretty nicely dressed. He asked for a certain
hackman. Well, we don’t care, as a rule, about putting fares out of our
own paw into that of any other driver. But this fellow happened to be
next hack to me, and heard his name. Anyway, they got in, and I heard
the man say, ‘Drive me to the Humber.’ Jim’s going away left me first
hack on the stand. I thought no more about it, but in a few minutes a
real pretty woman came up to me and described this man, and asked me if I
had seen him. I told her he had gone into a hack with a lady. You ought
just to have seen that woman’s eyes when I told her that. ‘If you can
catch—no, I think she said overtake—overtake that hack, said she, I’ll
give you $5.’ Well, now, I knew they had gone to the Humber, and I was
pretty sure they wouldn’t drive very fast, so I bundled her in and got on
the box. I wasn’t very sure how far they had got with the block-paving
on Queen street, but I wanted to strike what was fit to drive on as soon
as possible, so as to make sure I wouldn’t pass the hack. So I went
along Richmond street to Esther and when I got there I found the street
full of blocks. This kept me back, and we didn’t catch that darned hack
until we were on the lake shore road. When we got even with it I said,
‘Jimmy, stop your load, I want to speak to you a minute.’ He stopped,
and when I assisted my fare out she was trembling like a leaf. She just
went over to the other hack and looked in. I just saw her reach in her
two hands and when she took ’em out she held in them the other woman’s
hat and feathers. She threw that on the ground and trampled on them and
then reached for the other girl again. She fairly skull-dragged her out
of the hack. I believe she would have choked her if I and another cabman
hadn’t pulled her away. And do you know, that big chump in the hack never
interfered or said a word. He had a black beard and mustache, and his
face was as white as a sheet. As soon as we pulled her away she just
sat down in the sand and commenced to cry as if her heart would break.
Then the man came out of the hack and came up to her: ‘For heaven’s
sake, Kate, don’t make an exhibition of yourself,’ he said. Well, sir,
women are the darnedest fools you ever saw. If she had gone to work and
scratched the nose off her husband I’d never have interfered, but instead
of that she tackles the woman, and when that mean villain began to talk
to her and raised her up out of the sand she quieted down and drove off
with him in Jim’s hack. Oh women are queer ones. I’ll bet that she puts
all the blame on the other woman, and thought her husband was a perfect
angel, who had been led astray by a designin’ woman—that’s what they call
it. Well, I drove the girlie back to town, and when she had time to think
she was hopping mad. Every time she’d look at her mashed hat she wanted
to go and find that woman. She said she had as much right to him as the
other woman, because he paid attentions to her before he was married, and
only married the other woman because she was better fixed than she was.
‘Yes, and better looking,’ I said to myself. But the strangest thing that
happened that night was that I was so flustrated that I let that woman go
off without ever asking for my $5. But it was all right. A boy came up to
me on the stand next day and handed me an envelope with a $10 bill and a
slip of paper inside with writing on it, ‘Fare to Humber and back.’”
CHAPTER IV.
BILLIARDISTIC BOYS.
There is no amusement I can think of out of which innocent enjoyment
cannot be extracted. Personally, I can see no harm in young people
dancing or playing billiards or cards—as long as they are carried on in
the homes of these young people. As soon as our youth desire to pursue
these pleasures away from the watchful eye of their parents, so soon do
they become dangerous. The billiard halls of this city are not supported
by men, but by lads. Go to any of them, either day or night, and ten to
one you will find the majority of the players are youths not yet come
of age. A remarkably large proportion you will find to be mere boys,
and the skill with which they play seems to argue that they did not
start playing yesterday nor the day before. Just watch the swagger they
assume. The blase airs of these young cynics is an article of first-class
quality. After you have admired that, I call your attention to the cut
of the garments of these young gentlemen—very neat isn’t it—and two
or three of them sport watches, gold or silver. Then consider that it
costs these cute-looking chaps 30 cents an hour for every hour that they
occupy that table and that some of them are here every night, and you
will wonder where the wherewithal comes from. Some of them work. Some of
them don’t. In any case they must have indulgent parents, or—something.
There is a group of Upper Canada College boys round that table. No doubt
their wealthy and aristocratic progenitors make liberal allowances to
their darling boys. They play good enough to make a good showing in a
tournament. If they are as proficient regarding the angles at the base
and on the other side of the base of an isosceles triangle as they are
with the angles in and about this table they must be fine mathematicians.
There is another group playing pool. Don’t look at them too hard, because
they are chipping in ten cents on the game. One little boy who has not
been playing very long, and who I saw scoop in a “pot” shortly after I
came up stairs, has lost the joyous look that then mantled his features.
Just study that face. Look at the dreadfully anxious expression with
which he follows the movements of the ball, and as it creeps slowly
towards a pocket I believe the intensity of that boy’s will makes the
inert ivory move an inch further on, and it drops in the pocket. He
flushes up to the roots of his hair. If he gets the next ball he will
take in the “pot” again. But he is very nervous, and makes a poor shot,
and the next in hand pockets the ball. The little chap looks wistfully
at the bigger boy who took in the forty cents, and goes up and whispers
something to him. “I can’t do it Charley. You’d only lose again. You’ve
got no show with us, and you’d better get out of it while you can.”
Charley goes and sits down, feeling very bitterly I’ve no doubt. There is
the spirit of gaming in its essential characteristic—after all of your
own money is gone, borrow from anybody and everybody, and have another
hazard.
I went up to another prominent hall in the daytime, and found it filled
with youths, but they did not seem such a respectable-looking lot as
those I saw at night at the first place. They were a hoodlum lot, very
noisy, and poor players. I was much surprised. It seemed astonishing
that during the working hours there could be such a number of young men
unemployed and yet playing a game which it requires funds to engage
in. There is something very ominous about this and no one could think
otherwise than that times must be very flush indeed to permit of it.
A visit to a hall which is attached to a saloon showed me that this class
of place is patronized mainly by men, nor was there half as much noise as
in the room last mentioned. I am told that in some of these places they
merely play for the drinks, and much drunkenness is the result.
Pool is at present the most popular form of billiards among the masses.
It lends itself more readily to gambling than carom billiards, and any
person who takes observation will come to the conclusion that more of the
spirit of gaming is disseminated among our young men by this game than
by any other half-a-dozen things. It would seem to be quite as necessary
that boys should be prevented playing at all in public billiard halls, as
it is that they should be prevented buying liquor at a bar.
CHAPTER V.
THE GAMBLERS.
The life of a professional gambler is not passed in a constant whirl of
excitement, as the uninitiated may suppose; neither is it a continual
source of pleasure to him, as many of the fraternity in Toronto could
testify did they wish to relate their Police Court reminiscences, or
the enjoyment they experienced during their somewhat erratic periods of
“financial depression.” The crime of gambling at cards increases with the
growth of every city and for some reason or other the police make but
spasmodic efforts to suppress it. This appears to be especially the case
in Toronto, where the members of this thieving profession openly defy the
detectives and laugh at the puny efforts of the police constables and
their officers, who have sometimes occasion to visit the houses in search
of thieves. Neither the constables nor the detectives are to blame for
this deplorable state of affairs, but the heads of the department are,
because they know that the evil exists; know that young men are nightly
receiving their first lessons in those dishonest practices that tend to
damn their whole future prospects, and yet will not issue the mandate
that would rid the city of these unprincipled professional gamblers,
these miserable curs of society. Not long ago, at a Police Court trial,
the Magistrate remarked that he looked upon a professional gambler as a
more degraded being than a common street thief, and explained his meaning
by adding that a thief boldly takes the chances of securing his spoil
or a term in prison, while the gambler first secures the confidence of
his victim, and then by subtle cheating robs him of his money. And yet
as a Police Commissioner he details about two hundred constables and
seven detectives to hunt down the thieves, and allows the gambling hells
to flourish on the principal streets. The Magistrate is not alone in
this neglect of duty. Mayor Boswell is chairman of the Board of Police
Commissioners, and his Honor Judge Boyd sits by his side. Are these
gentlemen aware that night after night scores of young men are being
ENTICED INTO THESE DENS?
Are they aware that night after night they are exposing the children of
their old friends, perhaps their own boys, to the temptations provided
by the proprietors of these soul-destroying caves of iniquity,—to the
fascinations of the gaming table? Are they aware that many young men
highly connected in Toronto, have not only blasted their reputations and
their prospects, but have rendered themselves liable to a felon’s doom by
robbing their employers to pay an “honorable” debt at cards,—a debt never
really contracted excepting through the medium of marked cards or like
devices? If they be not aware of these things let them study the police
records, and should they not be successful in their search let them
accompany a detective on night duty in his rambles through Toronto by
Gas-light. The writer has done so on many occasions during the past ten
years, and has witnessed such scenes of dissipation, such open cheating
and deliberate robbery of inexperienced boys, and has heard so many
expressions of remorse and despair that he cannot but feel surprised that
the fathers and mothers who have wept tears of blood over their erring
and deluded boys, that the merchants who have been robbed and the victims
themselves do not rise up and demand the heads of the police department
to suppress this gigantic evil at once. Perhaps they will when Major
Draper, Chief of Police, gets tired of shooting alligators in Florida.
CHAPTER VI.
PLUCKING THE SUCKERS.
There are so many different devices resorted to by the professional
gambler in order to secure the money of his victim without showing that
he has been cheating, that it is almost an impossibility to recall
them all from memory, but a few may be noted. The game of faro was so
thoroughly described in the recent Mathieson-Kleiser Police court case
that it is only necessary to show by a single illustration how the
uninitiated can be cheated under his very nose without the slightest
danger of the dealer being detected. In playing a brace game the dealer
procures a deck known as “strippers,” which are made out of thin and
elastic cards. The deck is first cut perfectly square, and then trimmed
in such a manner as to resemble a wedge, being a trifle wider at one
end than at the other, so trifling that no one out of the secret could
notice it. It is then decided if the deck is to be arranged so as to play
one end against the other; that is the ace, deuce, tray, king, queen,
and jack against the four, five, six, ten, nine, eight. The first-named
cards, with two of the sevens, are placed together, making one half of
the deck; then the latter-named cards, with the other two sevens, which
constitute the other half of the deck, are placed together, being still
smooth and even on the edges. They are then divided equally, after which
one half is turned round, and you have a deck of “strippers,” which
the dealer can manipulate so successfully that it is impossible for a
better to win. The “capper,” who plays in with the dealer, the screw box,
sanding the cards, playing with fifty-three instead of fifty-two cards,
and preparing the cards so that two can be drawn from the box at once,
and still adhere to each other, at the will of the dealer, are a few of
the difficulties a better has to overcome before he can win any money at
faro.
The most popular game played in the city, however, is draw poker, and
this game is not confined to the gambler’s den or the club room.
IN A FRAUDULENT GAME
there are generally two or more confederates playing in with each other
as the opportunity occurs so as to rob the strangers at the table. If
the victim be very fresh the gambler simply “stacks” the cards, which is
readily accomplished by placing them in a desired position while putting
the hands that have been played in the pack. They also pass cards from
one to the other to strengthen each other’s hands, deal from the bottom
where they have cards prepared, ring in cold decks—that is, a pack of
cards all arranged to suit the gambler, and exactly similar in appearance
to the ones in use—utilize the false cut, and make “strippers” out of,
say, four aces and four tens, so that the gambler is always sure of a
“full” hand or four of a kind; but the most ingenious method of fleecing
a young player is by using “marked” cards. To all appearances the backs
of these cards are covered simply by a fancy pattern, but the gambler
can read them off as he deals as readily as if he were looking at their
faces, so that he knows the other players’ hands before the player
himself can read them off. It requires but seventeen different marks to
a pack, four marks to designate the suits, and thirteen to designate the
cards in each suit. The mark will generally be found in the shape of a
heart, diamond, spade, or club worked ingeniously into the scroll work,
but some times an old hand at cheating will buy a pack with marks that
require a “key” before they can be deciphered.
CHAPTER VII.
THE WORK OF THE “CAPPERS.”
Standing at the entrance to a prominent hotel on King street one summer
evening some years ago were two stylishly-dressed young men, each with
nobby canes, which they twirled carelessly as they nonchalantly puffed
away the smoke from their cheroots, gorgeous jewelry and moustaches
waxed out to a point as fine as a needle. To the envious and hard-worked
store clerk they appeared to be gentlemen in looks, thoughts, actions,
and living. To the detective, who was watching them, they were known
as miserable stool-pigeons, “cappers” for a notorious gambling hell,
situated in rear of a King street building, on the lookout for victims.
And it was these vile, heartless scoundrels that caused George Reynott’s
ruin. His father was a well-to-do merchant in a country town near Guelph
who had sent George to the city to gain a metropolitan experience in a
wholesale dry goods house, but it would have been better had George been
satisfied to remain at home with his father in the town where he was
such a favorite. He was barely twenty-four years of age, frank in manner
and pleasing in address, with a temperament not suited to withstand the
temptations of city life. He came to the city with a light heart, full
of energy and with bright hopes for the future. Now he is a broken down
gambler, inebriate and burglar, serving out a ten years’ term in Joliet
prison, while his aged father lies in a grave prepared for him by his
son’s follies and crimes. The writer knows not when the “cappers” first
made George’s acquaintance, but the detective states that he had seen
the trio together several times in saloons and billiard parlors, where
they occasionally played a five-cent game of “shell out.” Gradually
George became imbued with a desire to see more of the world, and his
wily companions, knowing that his father kept him well supplied with
money, gave impetus to this desire by relating surprising stories of
midnight escapades, card parties and champagne suppers. When the poor
deluded victim first commenced to handle the ivory chips is not known,
but in a very short time he became one of the most constant visitors to
the luxuriously furnished hell. His repeated requests for money alarmed
his father, and his frequent absences from work annoyed his employers to
such an extent that they finally wrote to the father. The letter had its
effect. Mr. Reynott came to the city, and after a conversation with the
wholesale firm consulted a detective, who explained just how far George
had gone.
THE SCENE BETWEEN FATHER AND SON
was a painful one, but it ended happily, the latter having promised never
to touch a card again. He meant at the time to keep his word, but in less
than a month the “cappers” regained their old influence over him, and
he became more fascinated than ever with gaming. When he was unable to
get more money from his father he pawned his jewelry, until one night he
took the second decided step in the downward path. There were five seated
at a table, George among them, two being strangers, and the other two
being regular “skins,” when the writer entered the room, but they were
so engrossed with their play that they paid no attention to the visitor.
It was draw poker, twenty-five-cent ante and five dollars limit, and
much to the surprise of at least one person in the room, George was away
winner, having half a dozen stacks of chips in front of him, along with
a roll of bills and a pile of silver. His face was deeply flushed, his
eyes sparkled, and his whole frame quivered with the intense excitement
that consumed him, but when the “luck” commenced to turn, and he saw his
chips and bills gradually fading away, a ghastly pallor spread over his
face, driving back the gambler’s blood to his heart. The “skins” had
been utilizing a pack of “markers,” and in order to rob the strangers
had first dealt George the winners, so as to more securely hide their
villainy, and had then fleeced him at their leisure. When the unhappy
young man found himself completely ruined, with his I.O.U. for $25 in the
hands of one of the gamblers, he was filled with a great remorse, and
wept like the child he really was. He felt that he must pay the debt of
“honor” contracted over the poker table or be
DISGRACED AMONG HIS “FRIENDS.”
And he did pay it, but at the expense of his honesty and his employers.
He stole goods from the store, pawned them to pay his gambling debt,
was found out, and would have been sent to jail but for the respect the
employers had for the father. After this exploit the reckless young man
went headlong to the devil. He became a frequenter of the lowest gambling
dens in the city, practised “skin” games till he became as skilful as his
old-time “cappers,” and his passion for the card table became so strong
that when he could find no other game he would take a hand at “nigger
loo” with the most notorious colored gang in the city. By this time his
stakes had dwindled down from a $10 bet to one cent ante and fifty cents
limit. He needed the balance of his cash for whisky! Three months ago
the writer saw George Reynott making his way with “kindly curves” to a
gambling house on King street. Last week a dispatch announced that he had
been sent to Joliette prison for ten years for burglary.
* * * * *
Such is the brief history, and a true one it is, of a young man who, but
for those miserable scoundrels known as “cappers,” might have become a
respectable member of society. Nor is this a solitary case. The gambling
hells are nightly visited by young men well connected and refined in
manner, but they are unable to resist the fascination of a game at poker.
They play, and play high. They are on small salaries; where do they get
the money?
CHAPTER VIII.
NIGGER LOO.
There are gamblers and gamblers, but in the expressed opinion of his
Worship they are all thieves. Some affect good manners, society, and
clothes, wear genuine diamonds, and claim for themselves the credit of
never taking part in a “crooked” transaction, either over the table or
away from it. They do not even openly associate with their “cappers,” but
leave these sneaks to do the dirty work, paying them a small percentage
of the winnings therefor. They follow the “circuit,” attend all the
race meetings on both sides of the line, and are looked upon with favor
by sporting men. They are lavish in their expenditure and generous to a
fault with each other on the street. But alas for their good impulses!
Every generous thought fades away more completely than a misty dream
when they face each other at the poker table, and when they succeed in
roping in a wealthy “sucker,” they become night-hawks indeed, and swoop
down on their unsuspecting prey with a force and ferocity that cannot be
resisted. All thieves? Aye, cruel, heartless thieves.
There are other gamblers who affect—nothing. Too strongly in love
with whisky to have much money, they simply drift on and on until
the drunkard’s grave or a government prison affords them a harbor of
refuge. And yet, even these poor whisky-soaked half-crazed wretches,
who are not possessed of spirit enough to look an honest man in the
face, are thieves. They cannot play poker in the “gentleman” gambler’s
den, so they repair to the house of a colored man and by their superior
skill in manipulating the cards fleece their darker-skinned, but not
blacker-hearted brethren, out of the few pieces of silver they succeed in
earning during the day.
Yet it is hardly a step from the gambler’s palace to the drunken crook’s
den, and when the visitor passes in his tour of inspection from one to
the other no feeling of surprise comes over him. The same kind of people
are in attendance, are playing poker, and if they have not pat hands
lying on their laps it is because they keep them concealed in their vests
or down the back of their necks. You know even a gambler is allowed to
smooth his shirt-front or adjust his collar when he wishes. The same kind
of people, with faces a little more bloated and blotched, perhaps, and
the lines showing more clearly the unmistakable
SIGNS OF DISSIPATION
and debauchery, but the very same kind of people. There is no place in
the world better adapted for the study of human nature than in the poker
room. So the reader may accompany a detective and the writer to one of
the most notorious “nigger dives” in the city. It is a queer-looking
attic about the size of a large cupboard, and is illuminated in daylight
by a four-pane window that commands a picturesque view of outhouses and
filthy yards. It is one of those noisome chambers upon the very threshold
of which a sensitive person will probably recoil in natural disgust. The
paper on the wall, or what remains of it, is discolored and greasy, and
the table, once a light oak, has been blackened by the action of time and
dirt, the unbrushed sleeves of the gamesters, tobacco smoke, and beer
stains. There were five people, two white men and three “coons,” seated
at the table when the visitors managed to overcome their first feeling
of disgust, and enter the room. Phew! It was worse than executing a
search-warrant in a York street junk-shop. They were playing poker, and
paid no attention to the detective, when they found he was not followed
by a posse of police.
“It’s all right, Slick; only showing a friend of mine around a bit.”
“Good enough, boss; thought as you’se gwine to pull de ranch. Make y’seff
to hum.”
That being impossible in so small and filthy a hole, the visitors
squeezed themselves as near to the open window as possible, and watched
the game. It was evident at a glance that the white men were proficients
in the art of cheating, and that the “coons” knew they were exercising
their arts, but
THE FASCINATION THAT LED THEM
to the table kept them still in their seats. The deals go on, and as
piece after piece of silver crosses from the stakes of the blacks to
the whites, the silence becomes still more ominous, and the glitter of
three pairs of rolling black eyes becomes more dangerous. The first
coon deals the cards and all pass out, the next taking up the pack with
a like result. Coon No. 3 clumsily shuffles the pasteboards, but does
his “stacking” so poorly that every one gets on to his racket, to use a
gambler’s phrase, and passes out. Now comes a jack-pot, where every one
antes till the game is opened. The pack circulates three times, and no
one will open it, although the onlookers see a pair of aces in one hand
which disappear in a most mysterious manner. The expression on the faces
of the whites differs widely. One is as cool as if he were engaged in a
game of euchre for the drinks; the lips of the other twitch nervously,
his face is as pale as the whisky blotches will allow it to be, and his
eyes have a peculiar shifting motion, as if he apprehended danger. But
look at the coons! Their wooly heads are pushed forward till their necks
look as long as a plumber’s bill, their protruding eyes are as stationary
as a fascinated gamester at a faro table, and their great flat nostrils
are dilated so as to almost engulph their mobile lips, from which no
sounds are issued. The pot is a large one for such a small game, and
when the imperturbable white leans over and calmly observes, “I’ll open
it for a dollar,” there is a dead silence, followed by a sudden move on
the part of the largest coon, who leaps to his feet, and with flaming
eyes, yells,
“No you don’t, honey; you squidged dose keerds.”
Every man makes a grab at the pile in the center of the table, which is
overturned with the lamp, and in the
EGYPTIAN DARKNESS
that ensues a general fight occurs. The writer cannot say who got hurt;
he got his body out of danger by changing venue to the roof. When he
returned the crowd were equally dividing the money and the imperturbable
white was disgorging aces and kings from behind his neck and out of his
vest and sleeves.
* * * * *
If it were possible to confine gambling at cards to the professional
gamblers, there would be no cause for complaint, but as this is an
impossibility, the Police Commissioners should take steps to protect
young men who are first innocent victims and afterwards by their
experience become villainous cheats. It is a well-known fact that poker
is largely played in private houses and at some of the clubs, but with
these cases the police are powerless to deal, and it is only public
sentiment that will break them up. In some of the hotels, too, rooms are
set apart for card-playing, but as the Magistrate has stated that, on a
hotelkeeper being convicted of such an offence, he will annul the liquor
license, it is safe to conclude that the business is not carried on on
a very large scale. The Police Commissioners have it in their power to
keep many young men from being decoyed headlong to destruction. Will
they exert that power by arresting these “cappers” and unscrupulous
night-hawks as vagrants, if they cannot catch them gambling, and give
them a term of imprisonment without a fine after the first conviction?
In conclusion it may be remarked that gambling is not the only offence
of the gambler against public morals. Many of them shun drink, and only
indulge in occasional excesses in this direction, but all of them,
without exception, are frequenters of immoral houses. When a gambler
makes a haul his first impulse is to repair to the bagnio, where he finds
creatures who will welcome him when he is flush. The debasing nature of
gaming is shown in the one fact that the money won is largely spent in
the indulgence of guilty pleasures.
CHAPTER IX.
THE NIGHT POLICEMAN.
“Come along Teraulay street,” said a night policeman the other night to
me, “you may as well go that way to the office as any other.” It was
after one o’clock in the morning, it was a starless night, our footsteps
echoed strangely from the houses, millions of unseen spirits were opening
with noiseless fingers the swelling buds of the horse-chestnuts over
head, and, in short, the night policeman by my side wanted to chat and
thus pass some of the time away. I was not slow in taking advantage of
the humor he was in.
“I suppose you have some queer experiences patrolling through the ward at
night,” I put in as a starter.
“Indeed I have,” he replied as he adjusted his cape over his shoulders,
“yes indeed. You would hardly believe me if I told you some of them. See
here, Kate,” addressing a woman who was slinking past in the shadows,
“You had best get under cover somewhere. If I see you again I’ll run
you in, mind that.” The woman scuttled away in the darkness, and the
policeman, catching step with me again, continued, “Yes, it’s a queer
life we lead out in the street at night, and it’s queer things we hear
and it’s queer people we see. Why, it’s not half an hour ago that I was
seeing down that street yonder when I heard a woman’s screams and cries
of murder. I could hear the sound of vicious blows, and was not long in
locating the house.
“The screams grew louder, and, drawing my baton, I made a rush against
the door and burst it open. As I entered the little hall the light in a
back room was put out. I struck a match, and going through lit a lamp on
the table. Well, sir, it was
A QUEER SIGHT.
A woman was crouching on the floor in her nightdress. Her face was
swollen and bleeding, and there was a cut on her head. Her white garment
was spotted with blood, and she was groaning with pain. In the corner
stood her husband, a big, ugly fellow half dressed.
“What are you killing your wife for, Bill?” says I, “You’ll have to come
with me.”
“I never struck her,” says he.
“Indeed that’s true, sir,” said the woman, “I fell down the cellar stairs
in the dark.”
“But I heard you yelling murder outside.”
“Sir, you must have been mistaken, I never cried murder. Did I, Bill.
’Pon my word, sor, it was by falling down the stairs I got hurt.”
“‘Show me the stairs,’ says I, and would you believe it, there isn’t a
cellar in the place, nor stairs neither!”
“Did you arrest him?”
“Naw! where would be the use? She would come up in the morning and swear
a hole through a brick wall that he never put a hand on her, and where
would I be?—I’d look like a fool, and I would be reprimanded for bringing
a case like that into court. Yes, I left them there, and as I was goin’
out, what do you think but the fellow followed me and threatened to have
me before the commissioners for breaking in his door. There are lots of
scenes like that, lots of ’em. Why I have heard the devil’s own ruction
going on in a house, and when I went in there they were all sitting among
a lot of broken furniture, as mum as mice and ready to swear that they
hadn’t opened their mouths to speak for twenty-four hours.”
“What about burglars?”
“I have had some queer experiences. Ha! ha! One moonlight night I was
pacing on my beat, when I saw a dark figure leap over a fence that
surrounded the handsome premises of a wealthy lawyer. I went to the fence
and looked over, but it was dark on the terrace and I could see nothing.
In a few minutes, however, I saw
THE DARK FIGURE OF A MAN
crawling stealthily along the veranda and enter through an open window,
and in a few minutes a faint light shone out. Fortunately I could hear in
the distance a footstep which I rightly judged was the policeman on the
other beat. I went up a block, called him, and the two of us returned to
the scene of operations. After consultation I put my comrade to watch the
window while I went round the house. I found a room on the ground floor
dimly lit. I tapped on the window and in almost a moment I heard a man
get out of bed and come to the window. It was the man of the house. He
recognized me at once. I whispered to him that I had seen a man climbing
through one of his up-stair windows. He never said a word, but beckoned
me round to the front of the house and let me in. I told him what part of
the house it was in, and we went softly up stairs. We could hear no noise
nor did we meet anyone. We went in softly through a long corridor, and
descending three steps entered what I took to be the servants’ quarters.
Suddenly my companion touched me on the arm and pointed to a strip of
light under a door. We both came closer, and could hear a whispering
inside. I asked him if I would burst the door, and he nodded. I drew back
as far as I could, and then launched myself with all my force against the
door, which gave way easily, and we both sprang into the room.”
“Did you catch the burglar?” I inquired, as the policeman started to wipe
his lips and look up at the sky.
“You bet we did. He was easy caught. In fact, he and the housemaid
were—well, this is a queer world.
SUCH A SCENE
I never saw. The girl wept, implored, prayed and finally went into a fit.
The “burglar” got down on his knees and begged for mercy, and the lawyer
stormed and swore and finally laughed. The whole house was roused, and
some of the women came in and cared for the wretched girl.”
“Did you arrest the fellow?”
“No, the lawyer was satisfied with kicking the fellow into the street,
and bundling the girl after him on the next morning, and that was the
whole
|
written in a plain, legible hand, without any _ad captandum_ humbug.
John had horses from twenty-five to five-hundred guineas each.
But as the Doctor's fame increased, so, it might be truly said, the
follies of "hypochondriacism" began to be exposed. People, and
especially those of the Great Faculty, were jealous of the Doctor's
reputation. It is always a sign of a little mind to be envious, or
jealous of another man's celebrity. Take it for granted, when you hear a
man speak slightingly of another, set that man down, whoever he is, for
a conceited ass himself, or an ambitious, if not an envious and wretched
man. Better speak nothing, than speak evil of another; better correct an
evil thought, than have to repent of an evil act. Some called the Doctor
a mere visionary practitioner, or a mere veterinary surgeon, or a quack,
or anything else. But he kept on his course. We have selected a few of
the strange cases that came before him a hundred years ago.
What changes in a hundred years!
What fashions, and what dress!
What troubles, woes, and bloody tears,
The world must now confess!
Avoid them all,--seek peace and love,--
Be humble and be wise;
May this poor book some comfort prove
To friends, and enemies.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
_A Brother Patient.--How to make the least use of a Horse._
It was not long before the Doctor received a visit from an old friend;
one, who had, in younger days, been a student in the same school, and
entered into practice about the same time. The servant introduced Doctor
Bull,--yes, Doctor John Bull, or, more properly styled, John Bull, Esq.
M.D.--but not F.R.S. No, Doctor Bull had been more ambitious of
practising, than of obtaining an empty name. He was a steady, well-to-do
little man, and never lost a patient from any want of good manners or
attention. He had certainly given much thought to the subject of
_Hydrophobia_, and was considered no mean authority in the treatment of
cases pronounced very malignant; but he by no means confined his
abilities to that one branch of human misfortune.
He advised well with the Surgeons, and, generally, approved their
treatment; but suggested frequently that judicious change which the
nature of the case required. This he did in so gentlemanly and
considerate a manner, that he was sure to be consulted by the very next
patient of the same Surgeon.
In this way, he made many friends, lost very few, and found himself in
the most affluent circumstances from very extensive practice. But,
somehow, he overworked himself, and got into a very irritable, and at
the same time desponding, tone. Prosperity tries men very often more
severely than adversity.
The Doctor, as long as he had his way to make in the world, was more
attentive to others, and thought less about his own ails than he did
about others. Now that he had accumulated money, he began to think of
investments, and how he should place to the best account his
accumulations.
He also thought a little more of style, equipage, choice society, and
innumerable things, to which his life had been hitherto a stranger. He
began to think and to care more about himself, than he did about any
body else. He became of some consequence in his neighbourhood, and
expected every one to bow to him, and to treat him as a _monied man_. In
short, from a pure philanthropist, he became almost a misanthrope.
He began to torment himself about every thing and every body. Nothing
pleased him,--his wife and children disturbed him,--he was downright
cross to them. And the same man, who once never came into his house
without a cheerful smile for every one in it, now took no notice of
anyone, except it were to find fault, and to let out words which in his
sober senses he would be shocked to hear any other person make use of.
"My dear, I am sure you are not well," said Mrs. Bull, to him one day,
"I am sure you are not well."
"I could have told you that," was the reply.
"Do take a little change."
"Pish! change! what change? I am changing, and shall soon make some
great change, if things go on as they do in this house."
"Is anything wrong, my dear?"
"Yes, everything is wrong,--nothing is right,--all things are out of
order,--and everything wants a change."
"Well, my dear, I think, if we took a house for three months at
Brighton, it would do us all good."
"What good, madam? And who is to pay for it? What will become of my
patients? and how am I to support my family? Brighton indeed! No, no! If
I cannot be better without going to Brighton, I had better decline at
home! Who is to look after my patients?"
"Why, there is Doctor Goodfellow, who I am sure you admire. He will
attend any of your patients for you. Do, my dear, have a little
compassion upon yourself."
"And, I suppose, upon you too; upon Kitty as well; upon Mary, Patty, and
little Johnny; servants and all,--Heigh!"
"If you please, my dear, even so, for you have not had much compassion
upon any of us lately; and a change towards us all would be very
agreeable."
A good wife has nothing to fear, and especially when she knows that she
so loves her husband as to desire his health above all things else,
whether of body, mind, or spirit. If a wife may not expostulate with her
husband, who may? And notwithstanding all his perverseness, she had her
own way with him, because she felt it was right.
To Brighton they all went; but the fancy had taken too strong hold upon
Doctor Bull, to let him rest. He worried himself because he was away
from London,--he worried himself about the state of his patients,--the
price of stocks,--the state of his own pulse, tongue, eyes, and
lungs,--till he could endure himself no longer.
"I must go and see my old friend Gambado; I know he is a clever man, and
has paid great attention to the nervous system, I must go and see him.
He ordered his chariot, and drove to Bread-street; sent in his card,
and was very soon shaking hands with his quondam friend Doctor Gambado.
"Bull, I am glad to see you! You are not come to consult me
professionally about yourself, I hope?"
"I am, though, and about nobody else."
"Then what's the matter with you?"
"Dispeptic."
"Is that all?" "No! Choleric?" "Is that all?" "No." "What is the matter?
out with it."
"To tell you the truth, Geoffery, I hardly know how to describe myself
to you. You never were afflicted in the same way."
"How do you know that?"
"I am sure of it. You never were tormented morning, noon, and night. You
never hated your profession, as I do mine. You never felt that you
killed a great many more than you cured! You never loathed the sight of
your wife and children, your house, servants, food, bed, board and
lodging. In short, I am a regular monster to myself, and shall soon be
good for nothing! Did you ever feel so, my friend?"
"Yes, and ten thousand times worse than all you have described."
"My dear friend, it is impossible."
"You may think it so,--and I certainly thought, once, exactly as you do
now,--I can therefore make allowances for you. I tell you, no one ever
appears so bad to any man, as the afflicted man does to himself. He
would soon be better if he could once see others worse than himself, or
as bad as himself, and wish, heartily wish, to see them cured. I tell
you, such was my case--even worse than yours,--and I can cure you."
"Will you, my dear friend? will you?"
"Yes, will I; and as we never take fees of the faculty, therefore, I
will cure you for nothing. I do not say, with nothing.--No. Will you
follow my advice?"
"Yes, assuredly. What is it?"
"Ride on horseback."
"I never did so since I was a boy."
"Nor did I, till I tried."
"But did that cure you?"
"Yes, it did; and will cure you also."
"How long did you ride before you felt better?"
"Not an hour."
"How long before you were well again?"
"Six days; six miles out, every day; six miles home; and in six days all
those morbid secretions went away from my brain, and I became as I am, a
cheerful and happy man."
"But how shall I manage? I must begin _de novo_. I must learn, and I
must get a horse that will just move as I want him, slow and sure;
either a walk, or a gentle canter; one that does not mind the whip; and
I dare not ride one with a spur."
"My dear fellow, I have a friend who served me with a horse just as I
wanted it; and I have no doubt he can serve you just as well. I will
write him a note, and you shall take it to him yourself."
Accordingly, the Doctor wrote him one of his laconic Epistles.
"DEAR TATT.--Mount my brother Doctor; give him a stiff-one, and one
that will require a little exercise of the _deltoides_ of the right
arm. He can pay. Suit him well.
Yours, faithfully,--GEOFFERY GAMBADO."
"Mr. John Tattsall."
Now the celebrated Doctor Bull had as good a pair of carriage horses as
any Squire Bull in England. Tatt. certainly mounted him on one "that he
could not" _make the least of_. He was quiet enough, stiff enough, slow
enough, steady enough; he did not mind the whip, for the Doctor might
cut him over the head, neck, ears, and under the flank, and anywhere,
and everywhere else; but the beast had no animation. The more he
punished him, he only went the surest way to show to the world, _How to
make the least of a horse_.
A few days after his _horse exercise_, he called on his friend Doctor
Gambado, and said, "Doctor, I am certainly better; but I believe I
should have been quite as well, if I had mounted a saddler's wooden
horse, and tried to make him go, as I am in trying to make your friend
Tattsall's horse go. I could not have believed it possible that any
beast could bear without motion such a dose of whip-cord as I have
administered to him."
"You asked for one that would bear the whip: did you not?"
"Yes, and one that was steady, did not shy, and would go very gently
even a slow pace; but this horse has no pace at all."
"Well, my good old friend, I am glad you are better; that's a great
point. I have no doubt, none in the world, that if you could mount
Master Johnny's rocking-horse, and would do so, and have a good game of
romps with your boy, it would do you as much good as showing to the
world _how to make the least of a horse_, by kicking, flogging, checking
his rein, and trying to persuade him to go on.
"But if you will only walk down with me to John Tattsall's stables, I
have no doubt you will quickly learn a lesson of equestrian management
that shall soon set you right with the public, and most especially with
yourself. You have learnt nothing but how to make the least of a horse.
Let my servant take your horse back; and if John Tattsall do not soon
show you _how to make the most of a horse_, then do not pay him either
for his horse or for his pains; but set all down to my account. Be
seated, my dear fellow, whilst I send your horse back with a note. The
Doctor wrote--
"DEAR JOHN,--My brother Bull wants to learn how to make the most of
a horse. We will be with you in the course of an hour.
Ever yours,--GEOFFERY GAMBADO."
"Mr. John Tattsall."
The brothers M.D. sat down to an hour's chat upon politics, stocks,
dividends, and philosophy; and at the end of one hour were seen wending
their way arm-in-arm to the celebrated _Livery Stables_ of John
Tattsall, whither we will follow them, just to see if we can behold a
contrast.
Far we need not go, to see
What makes a contrariety.
CHAPTER III.
_How to make the most of a horse._
Arrived at the stables, it was not long before Doctor Gambado introduced
his brother and friend Doctor Bull to the noted personage of his day,
John Tattsall. Is the name of Tattsall, as it used to be called,
corrupted, from a hundred years ago, now to that of Tattersall? We do
not know the gentleman's dealer, auctioner, or horse agent of the latter
name; but if he be the descendant of the great John Tattsall, we only
hope he is as good a man as his ancestor. A better in his line could
never be. It requires a knowledge of a man's craft, to say whether he is
a good or bad workmen at it. We have very little knowledge of
horse-dealers' craft, but their profits must be very great,--when the
licence is set so high as five and twenty pounds, before they can
practise the economy of horse-dealing. A hundred years ago, and the tax
was not so high.
[Illustration]
"This, John, is my friend, Doctor Bull, whom I recommended to your
notice to find him a horse in every respect quiet, without vice, and
gentle,--one who would bear the whip and not kick."
"Can the gentleman say I have not suited him?"
"I do not say I am not suited, but I had almost as soon be nonsuited in
a case of law, as be suited with so inactive a beast to ride."
"Ah! sir, you speak like a tyro concerning the law. If you were once
_nonsuited_, and had all the costs to pay in an action-at-law, believe
me, sir, the being _non suited_ in a horse which had no action, would be
greatly preferable to all the success of a case-at-law, though you were
told at the time that you got off cheap, after paying £150. Look, sir,
at that cheque:
"Please to pay to Messrs. Runner and Co. the sum of three hundred
pounds, on account of transfer of property, to the account of
Yours, faithfully,
CURRY AND POWDER."
How would you like that?"
"I should not like it at all; but there are many things in law and
horse-dealing, which the least said about them the soonest ended."
"And also in other things as well. But bring out the gentleman's
chestnut horse, Sam."
This was spoken to the groom, who knew his master's voice, and presently
brought forth the very self-same horse, sent back to the stables one
hour previously, as inactive: now behold him as lively as a lark.
What had been done to him, those acquainted with the art of renovation
could alone tell; but here was a contrariety without going far to find
it. The legs had been trimmed, the tail set up; and when the said John
Tattsall mounted him, the man and horse seemed to become each other.
John was a true specimen of an upright horse-dealer, a hundred years
ago. Coat was buttoned up, hat almost as conspicuous as the Field
Marshal's on the day of a grand review. Stick under his arm, easy seat
in his saddle, long spurs, short breeches, brown periwig, and such a
contour of character, that when he touched him with the spur, the
fiery-eyed charger set off at a Hyde Park canter, to the delight of his
learned spectators.
No one could be more pleased than Doctor Bull. "Aye! that is the way to
make the most of a horse. Could I but make as much of him as that, he
would be, of all creatures, the very one to set me up again? That will
do, Mr. Tattsall, that will do. You have given me a good lesson how to
make the most of a horse."
"Then, sir, you must let me make the most of him alone. One hundred
guineas, is his price; and this is my advice to you, never take this
horse out of his stable without giving him a good brush-up first. And
never get on to his back, without a pair of spurs on your feet; and you
will find him as pleasant a little park horse as any gentleman could
ever wish to ride."
The money was paid, and _John Tattsall made the most of him_. But Doctor
Bull made all that he expected out of him; namely, a restoration from a
fit of Hypochondriacism into which he never after relapsed; but owed his
cure to the honest advice of Geoffery Gambado, Esq. M.D. F.R.S.
"The simplest remedy, is mostly sure;
'Twill never kill; but almost always cure."
CHAPTER IV.
_Love and Wind._
The Doctor sat in his easy chair reading, as was his custom, the Morning
Star. That paper was then, what the Times is now. The Star had the
ascendant, but the Times outshone the Star. There is a season for every
thing under the sun; and two more variable things under the sun can
scarcely be mentioned, than the two at the head of this chapter. No two,
however, will, with all their variations of calm and storm, be more
lasting than these will be found to be, to the end of time. The Times,
and all connected therewith, will have an end. Love knows no end. The
Times may change as often as the winds, but it will be an ill wind
indeed that blows nobody any good.
But the Doctor was interrupted in his perusal of his paper by the
entrance of his factotum of a servant man, Samuel Footman. Sam was
steward and porter, and waiting man and butler, and a very worthy fellow
too, for in every thing he was trustworthy, the best quality any man
on earth, or woman either, can possess. Sam presented a card, saying the
gentleman's carriage was at the door, and he wanted to know if you were
at home. The Doctor looked at it. "Show Sir Nicholas Skinner up, Sam."
[Illustration]
There entered into the Doctor's presence the most melancholy
half-starved spectacle of humanity that he had ever seen; almost a
walking skeleton,--tall, thin, gaunt, and cadaverous,--melancholy in the
extreme, eyes sunken, lips drawn down so as almost to form a
semi-circular mouth; long, lank, thin light hair; a rough frill of the
most delicate white round his neck. His coat was buttoned round a waist
as thin as any woman's could be, and his eyes were sharp, black,
piercing, and poetical. "Pray, Sir Nicholas, be seated," said the good
Doctor, "you seem fatigued."
"I am so indeed! I have travelled all night, with post horses, all the
way from Salisbury, on purpose to consult you, Doctor; for I have heard
that you are famous in the cure of all nervous debility, and I verily
believe every nerve in my frame is shattered. How I have sustained the
journey and its fatigue I can scarcely tell; but I suppose it was the
hope of living for another, that gave me support."
Here the gentleman gave so long and so deep a drawn sigh, that it
convinced the Doctor at once, that this was one of those cases of
hopeless malady, _disappointed love_; which nothing but one thing could
either kill or cure, namely _matrimony_. The Doctor very seldom ventured
to recommend this universal specific for one thing or the other. It was
not exactly in his line.
"Let me feel your pulse." This he did; he also sounded his lungs, looked
into his eyes, and listened to the pulsation of his heart.
"Ah!" he said, "there is a little irregularity there. All is not exactly
right in the region of the heart. It appears to me to be slightly
disorganized."
"Not slightly, I assure you, Doctor; not slightly; I am afraid,
severely!" And this was spoken so very solemnly, that the Doctor, though
he felt disposed to smile, could not find it in his heart to treat the
case slightingly.
"Have you had any advice at Salisbury? Have you been under any medical
treatment?"
"O yes; yes, sir; Doctor Crosse has attended me for the last twelve
months. He treats my case as one of decline, or consumption. I was once
as robust as you are, Doctor; but I have wasted away to a shadow within
the space of one year."
"Pray, sir, are you a married man?"
"No-o-o! No-o-o! Not exactly that, but I am an engaged man. They do tell
me, I must be in better health before I marry; and that makes me very,
very anxious to get better. They will scarcely allow the slightest
breath of wind to blow upon me; no air, no exercise, no window down, no
curtain undrawn, one even temperature,--and nothing must disturb me. Oh!
Doctor, I fear I never shall marry. My intended is very careful over me.
She has come up, all the way to town with me, as my nurse; and is now in
my carriage at your door."
"Dear me, sir! why did you not tell me this before? It is actually
necessary that I should see your good nurse, and have a few minutes'
conversation with her. I am so glad you have brought her; it gives me
the greatest hope that I may be able to effect a cure."
The Doctor rang the bell. "Samuel, request the lady in the carriage to
step into the house. Show her into the drawing-room. With your
permission, Sir Nicholas, I will speak to her myself concerning your
treatment?"
The Doctor was expecting to see an elegant, lady-like woman, something
slender, and answering to the attenuated gentility of the being in whom
"hope deferred, evidently made the heart sick."
What was his astonishment when he beheld a blooming, buxom, short, fat,
merry-looking lass! with a face that sorrow seemed never to have
smitten. She wore a large hat and feathers; such a profusion of rich
brown hair, sweeping down her back, as would have made the Lord
Chancellor the finest wig in the land.
It is needless to relate the conversation. The Doctor soon found that
she was desirous of becoming Lady Nicholas Skinner, and very soon
settled the matter with great adroitness.
"_He must ride on horseback!_ You must make him do so. There is nothing
the matter with him, but over anxiety to be better; and it is all in
your hands. You, and you only, have the power of making him better."
"But about the wind?--state of the weather? what is your advice? east,
west, north, or south,--which is best?"
"No matter; the more wind the better gallop! Show him the way over
Salisbury Plains; and make him follow you. Take no notice whatever of
his feelings; but tell him, if he feels for you, he must keep pace with
you. He will soon be better!"
"But, about horses? There are no good riding horses in Salisbury."
"We will arrange that for you. Sir Nicholas may leave that to me. Only
assure him that he must persevere;--and let me know how he is, this day
month."
At the end of the month, the Doctor received the following epistles in
one cover; evidently meant to be a mutual acknowledgment.
Salisbury, August 1st, 1774.
"DEAR DOCTOR GAMBADO,--Love and wind have triumphed. The horses
suited admirably; though I fear the one Sir Nicholas rides is rather
short-winded, as he comes to a stand still before we have had half a
gallop. Still, I thank you, he is greatly improved. It was hard
work, and seemed very cruel at first, but he himself will tell you
the news.
"I remain, Dear Doctor Gambado,
Your's, gratefully,
CLARISSA DOUBLEDAY."
Salisbury, August 1st, 1774.
"DEAR DOCTOR,--I enclose a cheque for £300 upon my banker in town;
£200 for the horses, which are delightful creatures, and I thank you
for obtaining them for us; and £100 for the last fee to Doctors!--by
far the best; for I hope to be married in September. It is an ill
wind that blows nobody good.
"But in love, and wind, I remain, Dear Doctor,
Your's obliged,--NICHOLAS SKINNER."
"Doctor Gambado,
Bread street, Cheapside, London."
Love blows a blast, to conquer every man,
Let him resist it,--long he never can;
'Twill conquer all, and in the end bring peace,
Hurrah for love! true love can never cease!
CHAPTER V.
_How to ride a Horse on three Legs._
Fame never permits her votaries to rest, and once a man has gained a
certain reputation for any thing, he is wise who can be the humblest
under it, because he is conscious only of demerit. Should Fame desert
him, he will never sink under it. He will say, "I had a great deal more
than I deserved; let me be content." Wise man indeed! Doctor Gambado,
however, found that Fame did not desert him nor his practice. He was the
more sought after, the more personally-retired he would become.
Bread-street is not now celebrated for the worthies it was an hundred
years ago; but there are worthy men in it, and perhaps worthier than
those an hundred years ago, though not so celebrated for
_eccentricities_. Man's nature alters very materially under the
impression of time. Men inveigh against fashion; but the most convenient
fashion is that which is the simplest after all. Clerical habits
alter; externally they go for a class, a profession, or degree. We hope
that external feature will never be mistaken for internal; or the clergy
would be black indeed. Quakerism used to be a badge of simplicity in
dress and manners, till the self-possession of prosperity destroyed the
equanimity of judgment; and men set them down for exactly their worth.
But gently, my steed, gently; too long soliloquies generally make a man
yawn.
[Illustration]
Doctor Gambado had to go from London to York, and to visit no less a
person than one of the greatest ecclesiastical dignitaries of the land,
as the following letter will show.
"Precincts, York, October 10th, 1774.
"SIR,--Doctor Greathead is desirous of consulting you, as speedily
as possible; and if you have an eminent veterinary surgeon, who can
accompany you, the Doctor will pay all expenses, as he has a
favourite horse very ill. Travel post, if you please.
I am sir, your humble servant,
GEORGE GOTOBED, Hon. Sec. &c. &c."
Characteristic of simplicity was the Doctor's letter, that very instant,
to John Tattsall, written on a scrap and sent by his own servant.
"JOHN,--Will you be ready to start for York in an hour?
"Your's,--GAMBADO."
John's reply was more laconic.
"Yes.
"Your's,--J. T."
In one hour see this loving couple off for York. Each confiding in the
other's integrity, they each took plenty of money with them. At that
time, travelling by post or by coach was no joke. In a general way, from
London to York was a four days' journey; but now, four hours will do
great things.
We are not going to bother our readers with a description of all the
adventures of these worthies on their way. How many times they were
upset. How many times the post boy's horse fell down. How many spokes,
fellies, or hobs, were splintered. Let it suffice that, with two such
resolute men inside, who were never at a loss for contrivances under the
very worst circumstances, they were sure to get safely through the
journey.
Had the reader seen the blunderbuss,--yes, the bell-mouthed brass
blunderbuss,--with a strange springing bayonet at the muzzle, the moment
it was discharged, and this placed in the fore front of the carriage,
directly opposite the sword case behind, he would indeed have said the
Doctor was well provided against any robbers of the Yorkshire Ridings.
John, too, had a brace of pistols under his belt. They had no occasion,
however to use them. They were conspicuous enough to every post-boy,
waiter, and stable-keeper. Whether that kept them from an attack, we
know not; but they were not attacked, and arrived safely at the then
celebrated Precincts, close to the Cathedral.
They found the great Doctor Greathead, seated in an invalid chair, about
four o'clock in the afternoon. His first words of salutation were those
of hospitality.
"Gentlemen, have you had any refreshment after your journey?"
Doctor Gambado declared they had only just stept out of the carriage.
"Before I converse with the gentlemen, show them into the refectory. I
will be prepared, half an hour hence, for our consultation."
Glad was Doctor Gambado, to refresh his stomach after travel, and not
less glad John Tattsall to partake of the great divine's hospitality.
They did ample justice to the good things set before them; and as
neither of them had any favour to ask of this great man, but both had
something to confer, they were in no fear of taking too much or too
little.
The butler was very attentive, and asked if they had had any adventures
upon the road. Of course he received a courteous reply. The Doctor
inquired if there was any thing new in York. New York was then unknown;
but _York New Theatre_ was then the go all over the north. It was just
finished in most exquisite style, and was in fact the lion of the north.
"You will have plenty to see, sir," said the butler, "if you never were
at York before. Our Minster is the wonder of the world."
"But your master, he must be a wonder?"
Very few masters are wonders in their butler's eyes, though many a
butler becomes a wonder in the service of his master.
"There is nothing very wonderful about my master, except his present
indisposition; and I most sincerely hope that your visit may do him
good."
The butler had great respect for Doctors, and for Doctors that had
before them the title of Right Reverend, or His Grace, or My Lord, or
The Venerable; and these or some of these, he was accustomed to see
every day; but an M.D. F.R.S. was not often in his view. He had noted
these letters upon Doctor Gambado's card. The other gentleman had no
card, and, therefore, he concluded that he was the greater man.
The footman came in to announce that his master was ready to receive
Doctor Gambado and his friend.
There was something formidable in entering the presence of so great a
divine as Doctor Greathead; but they were not going in for an
examination of themselves, but to examine.
"Now, my friends, I can talk to you. I did not like talking to starving
men, lest they should be ready to eat me up; and you will say, they
would have enough to do to do that. But there are no cannibals at York,
or I might have been eaten up long ago. Still, I regret to say that I
have a disease preying upon my vitals; and except you can prescribe a
cure, Doctor, I am afraid it is all up with me."
"We can prescribe no cure, without understanding the nature of the
complaint."
"But it is that which puzzles the faculty in York. They say I have no
bodily complaint; that it is all upon the _nerves_; and therefore it is,
that in applying to my friend, Doctor Turnbull, to know if he knew any
physician in London celebrated for his knowledge of the treatment of
nervous cases, he mentioned you as the author of a book upon the nervous
system; and I desired my secretary to write to you. You have well done
to come to us, and we hope to receive benefit from your advice."
"I am obliged to Doctor Turnbull, for the mention of my name; but I must
make some inquiries about your bodily health?"
"How is your appetite?" "Good."
"How is your sleep?" "Good."
"How is your sight?" "Good."
"How is your pulse?" "Try it."
"What do you say yourself?" "It is good."
"Have you any fever?" "None."
"Have you any particular pain?" "No."
"Do you walk much?" "No."
"Do you ride much?"
"I can ride no longer; and I fear this is one of the painful causes of
my strange distemper."
"Are you accustomed to horseback exercise?"
"Constant: I used to ride on the Carlisle road every day, till about a
month since, and now I never ride."
"Why not?"
"I have lost the fancy or taste for it, and somehow I care no longer
about it."
"Ah! that's bad! That's bad of itself. You met with no accident, to give
your nervous system a shock, did you?"
"None whatever, except that my favourite old horse could go no longer,
and I no longer felt inclined to go."
"But there are other horses that might be had equally as good."
"None, sir, None! I do not believe there is another horse in England
that could carry me, like my old gray."
"If Yorkshire cannot suit you, I know no other county in the kingdom
likely to do so. Surely, Doctor Greathead, you must be deceived in this
respect?"
"Deceived or not, Doctor Gambado, I am not deceived in saying this, that
I will ride no other horse; and, in fact, I would rather ride that horse
on three legs, if he could be made to go upon them, then any other horse
upon four."
Great men as well as little men have singular crotchets in their heads
sometimes; and if these crotchets cannot be altered, they will go on in
such a monotonous tone that they never get out of it. The Doctor was a
learned scholar, and a very good divine; but his favourite horse was as
dear to him as a lady's favourite cat or cap could be to her.
He had rode the same horse ten years, and had got so attached to him,
that when that horse was seized with a lameness in the off hind leg, and
could no longer stand or go upon it, the Doctor's sympathies increased
with his favourite, though he was no longer any use to him. Like his
master, the animal fed well, and could sleep well, but he could not go.
"Have you seen my horse?"
"I came to see yourself first, Doctor, and I can have no objection to go
and see your horse, in company with my friend Mr. John Tattsall, who I
should say knows more of a horse than any man living; and can make a
horse go, I verily believe, on three legs."
The very idea gave animation to Doctor Greathead's features.
"I will walk with you to the stables."
He rang the bell, ordered his hat, gloves, and even his riding whip, so
precocious was the idea that the Doctor had conceived of being able to
mount once more his favourite gray.
The horse was led out, and came out upon three legs; the other evidently
of no use to him. In fact he could not put it to the ground.
John examined the sturdy old fellow, who had a small head and stout
legs; he pronounced him to be afflicted with an incurable disease in the
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